


The Time That We Love Best Prompt Fills

by Nehszriah



Series: The Time That We Love Best [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 1940s AU, 1950s AU, 1960s AU, 1970s AU, Babyfic, F/M, Gen, Kidfic, Prompt Fic, Slice of Life, WWII AU, more tags/characters to come as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-26 09:10:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 39
Words: 45,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4999048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fills of various lengths and topics, all concerning the Whouffaldi fic The Time That We Love Best</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dave, Meet Davey

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes over on tumblr I open up prompts for people to go and send in stuff and TTTWLB is a popular subject at times. This story will be a collection of them, so that everyone can enjoy.
> 
> -_-_-_-_-_-_-
> 
> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: How about...either while at the hospital, or a few days after they've left (without knowing how visiting hours would've worked in 1948 in London) Granddad David meets little David for the first time?
> 
> Originally Posted: 11 May 2015
> 
> Notes: 832 words; takes place on 26 September 1948 (the day after Davey's birth); makes reference to Dave and John's conversation from chapter fifty-five

Dave Oswald fidgeted in his seat as the train slowed to a halt in the station. The entire ride he had been drumming his fingers and bouncing his knee and swearing up and down he was gaining more grey hair by the hour. He stood and got his luggage from the overhead compartment as soon as the carriage stopped and was the first passenger out on the platform.

"Hey! Over here!" a familiar voice called out. Dave looked and saw John walking his way down the platform, the two men greeting one another with a hug. "It's good to see you again."

"It's good to see you too. God, I got the first train I could and the ride was _still_ torture."

"You can tell me all about it on the way to the hospital," John chuckled. He took his father-in-law's bag and led him out to the carpark, where his trusty motor vehicle was ready and waiting for them. After a quick stop at home to drop off the suitcase, the two men made their way to the hospital. As nervous as Dave had been on the train, he was considerably more nervous as they wound through the London surface streets, and not simply because of the driver's less-than-stellar capabilities.

Once at the hospital they checked in at the front desk and found that Clara had been moved out of the maternity ward into a private room to make way for some training equipment to be used by students later that week. They navigated the corridors and found her sitting up in bed, hunched over the bundle in her arms as she whispered to soothe her fussy child. Dave's chest swelled in joy as he saw her, further more when her face lit up at the sight of him.

"Dad! You came!" she grinned. Clara let her dad kiss her on the cheek and watched as he sat down in the chair next to her bed, with John taking the bit on the end of the mattress she was not tall enough to occupy. "I can't believe you made it all the way over here… and on a _Sunday_ …"

"Anything for my only daughter," he replied, taking her hand in one of his. "Now, where's this little chap that has decided to finally grace us with his presence?"

"Davey, meet your Granddad," Clara cooed to the child, passing him over to her dad. Dave held the boy, carefully rocking him as he fell back asleep.

"Oh, Clara… just look at him," he sniffled. Already holding back tears, he wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve and lightly traced the infant's face with a fingertip. "You looked the exact same way when you slept in my arms. If only Ellie could be here…"

"She is, Dave," John nodded. "Elena's alive in your memory, and I bet she's every bit as proud as you imagine." He paused for a moment, looking at the three generations of Oswald-Smiths pensively. "We're it, aren't we?"

"Yeah," Dave choked out. He ran his finger up and around Davey's head, playing with his barely-there hair. "Ellie was the only child of an only surviving child of an only surviving child on all sides, and my family never stuck around one another long enough to grow close. I wasn't kidding when I told you I understand being alone." He then broke out into a sob, taking his grandson's hand between his thumb and forefinger. "Now we're less alone, thanks to this one here. David James… you know, you really shouldn't have…"

"It was either name him David after his living grandparent or name him John and get a divorce," Clara chuckled. She leaned forward enough to put a hand on her father's shoulder and sigh. "We're not going to argue it."

"I'm not against the David part, but adding _James_ …"

"After m' Uncle Jaime, so don't go getting any ideas," John smirked. "That's as creative as the men in my family get and don't think we won't capitalize on that."

"Fair enough—you win," Dave laughed weakly. He looked down at Davey and saw that his eyes were now open, though just a crack, and let out half a giggle as his voice rose in pitch. "Hey there… how are ya? I'm your granddad, your mum's dad, one of the men whose name you carry. It's a pleasure to meet you, and after all this time. I should have done this years ago with your sister already, but some things turn out the way they do for a reason."

"Dad, you're so dramatic," Clara groaned. "Let's get him to an age where he can understand first, _then_ we can have John explain that to his heart's content."

"I'm just happy, Clara," Dave said. "Really happy… so happy, I don't have words." He watched as Davey closed his eyes again and fell back asleep, bouncing him softly. "When you hold your first grandchild, then you'll understand."

"I'm sure I will, Dad."


	2. Davey's First Film Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: Return of "film night" to the Smith household, figuring that John bought a new projector and found some new movies for his collection, maybe it could be "baby's first film night."
> 
> Originally Posted: 16 May 2015
> 
> Notes: 852 words; assumes John finds another film-loving renegade who dares to break copyright laws; takes place about late April 1949; warning for semi-phonetic German and spoilers for a 73 year old movie most people already know the plot twist for without having seen it

"John, what is this?" Clara asked as she entered the front sitting room. She had just come back from taking Davey on a walk in the park, with the pram still sitting in the foyer and son bundled up in blankets and a baby-sized jumper. Shifting Davey on her hip, she watched as her husband threw a bedsheet over a length of twine he had put up, creating a screen.

"I think it's well about time we start teaching our boy about art," he replied. "He seems to recognize colors and patterns alright, but knowing how to identify art is another. We can start slow; work it in little by little so his little sibling doesn't fall behind."

"I don't think you can fall behind watching _Snow White_ ," she deadpanned, glancing at the projector and reel tin. John gave her a grin as he adjusted the sheet and pinned it in place.

"Take a look again," he said. Clara went to the tin and picked it up, looking at the label. She could barely read the label, let alone pronounce it.

" _Einuh Laybens…ge…schik_ …"

" _Bambi_ ," John corrected. "I hear it's excellent, and that it's about a baby deer. You can't go wrong showing a baby a movie about another baby."

"I wonder if I dig up the old address book, I can write Romana and let her know you're cheating on her with another con artist," Clara said as she exited the room and made her way up the stairs. She changed out Davey's nappy, left his blankets on the rocking chair, and brought him back down to find that John had already finished setting up the projector and moving the couch so that they could sit like in a cinema. Once wife and child were sitting, he flicked off the lights and turned the projector on. John took the baby as he settled in, putting one arm around Clara and the other holding Davey in place.

"You see that, lad?" he murmured in Davey's ear as a forest came into view. " _Art_." The boy gurgled and clapped his hands at the sight of an owl flying through the trees. "Yup, that's right—just like your toy. See Clara? He's learning already."

"He's just like his dad, is more like it," she smirked. Snuggling into her husband's side, she watched as the various woodland creatures flocked towards the thicket and congratulated the doe on her son's birth. Her son and husband both remained captivated as the fawn played with his friends in the forest and experienced things such as storms and snow for the first time. Davey even let out a few more giggles now and then, both during summer and winter frolicking.

"I knew this was a good film to nab," John sighed, rubbing his hand along Clara's hip. They watched intently as the young deer and his mother scavenged for food in the harsh winter. "It's cute, yet realistic, and looks great. This could become a favorite if…"

"Shh…" she interrupted, pointing at the bedsheet-screen. The fawn and his mother had just found the first blades of grass for the Spring, and were eating happily.

Suddenly, the doe looked about the meadow, startled. The deer began to rush towards the forest in an effort to escape a hunter. Gunshots rang out and John's grip on his family tightened. The fawn ran back into his thicket-home and looked about for his mother, realizing with a heavy heart that she was not coming.

"That is sad, isn't it?" Clara mused aloud. She glanced over at John and saw him biting his lower lip as he attempted not to cry. Tears were escaping down his face despite his best efforts, eventually forcing him to pass over Davey and stand up, obscuring part of the screen.

"Pardon me," he choked as he left the room. Once he was gone, Clara looked back at the screen as the scene changed from winter to a joyous chorus of birdsong. The baby in her lap seemed unaffected by the tragedy that had just taken place in the narrative, amused at the birds that were irritating the grumpy old owl. In the middle of the owl's speech about being "twitterpated", John returned, still sniffling but having nearly recovered from what had seemed like a decent cry. "Sorry 'bout that. Here, give the little guy over here."

"Are you okay?" she asked as she gave Davey back. He nodded as she crept up to her knees, playing with his fluffy hair as he resumed holding them both.

"Yeah. It's just… that was a bit of an unexpected fright, wasn't it?"

"They're _deer_ , John."

"…I know…"

"…and they're not even real deer, but _drawings of deer_."

"It doesn't make the thought less terrifying," he admitted. He kissed her on the lips and gently squeezed his arm around her and their second child. "Maybe it won't be as frightening if the kids have grown up watching it."

"Probably; they'll be fine. If they're anything like their parents, then they're made of the tough stuff for when it matters."

"We can only hope."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bambi first came out in 1942, during that not-so-lovely event we like to refer to as WWII, meaning much of the non-North American market was unable to see the film for a very long time. From a technical standpoint it's gorgeous, with the backgrounds being mainly in impressionistic watercolors (after the art style of Tyrus Wong, a then-Disney employee, who is 104 years old and still alive at the time of this posting). It was the last of Disney's animated films to be a stand-alone story until 1950′s Cinderella, with the six movies in-between being "package films", or movies made up of multiple shorts, some leftover from the Fantasia project, some created due to Walt's goodwill trip to South America, and some that were made simply because of cuts made during the war making feature-length animation impractical. In fact, there was a noticeable shift from animation to live-action at Disney in the decades after WWII, met with varying levels of success.


	3. Clara the Carer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: Anonymous
> 
> Prompt: I want (very VERY badly) some doctor!whump in TTTWLB (or John, in this case), because I love the shit out of caring Clara and it would be great in your story. But anyway don't take me seriously, I'm just a nonny-fan of yours and I will read whatever you write because thats how love works :))
> 
> Originally Posted: 23 May 2015
> 
> Notes: 1200 words; I I had to look up the term "whump" on urbandictionary and it still makes me feel uneasy; takes place in October 1948; Clara's level of caring may vary depending on state law and various provincial mandates

Davey wailed from across the house, waking his mother with the regularity that she had begrudgingly become accustomed to. It wasn't that she was _irritated_ that her son needed to eat, let alone eat regularly, but she was still ready to welcome when he would begin sleeping through the night.

After a feeding and a nappy changing, Clara returned to her bedroom and took a look at the alarm clock—quarter to six. It wasn't the first early start she had gotten since Davey's birth and it certainly wasn't going to be the last. She sat down on the bed and reached over to her husband, gently shaking his shoulder.

"John, hey, wake up. Want some breakfast?" He laid there, not answering. She felt his forehead and clucked her tongue; he had a temperature. "Ugh, you idiot. I told you that chip vendor didn't look like he was to be trusted and now look at what you've gotten yourself into." She rolled her eyes and left the room.

A few minutes later and Clara returned with a tea tray laden with supplies. After putting it down on the vanity, she went over to her husband's side of the bed and rolled him over onto his back. After she had him propped up with some pillows, he began to stir, his eyes opening just a crack.

"Clara…?" he murmured, the noise catching in the back of his throat. "What are you doing?"

"Sitting you up," she replied. "I told you not to eat those chips yesterday and now look at you: laid up and barely able to move." She tucked the blankets around him and took a cup of tea, heavily laden with milk and sugar, and helped him drink it. "Are we going to listen from now on when your wife says she doesn't think a chip vendor looks sanitary?"

"Mm-hmm," he nodded.

"Good." Clara put a cold cloth on his head and took the mug back. "I'll be in to check on you soon."

John nodded weakly and closed his eyes again. Once she was sure he was asleep again, Clara first dressed for the day and afterwards took the tray back out of the room. She washed the mug, had her breakfast, and got Davey up for the day. Once he was dressed she kept him in the sitting room as she read the book club's latest entry, nestled between two cushions as he hugged his plush owl, filtering in and out of sleep. The infant cried before too long, needed to be fed and changed again. His mother took him upstairs and switched out the nappy before feeding him. He was nearly full when a thin, ghostly noise came filtering into the nursery from down the hall.

"Claaaraaa…"

"Coming," she replied, drenching her voice in as much honey as possible. She finished burping Davey and put him down in his cot and returned to her room. John had somehow fallen from his pillow-back support, now crumpled over on the mattress. Groaning, Clara sat him back up, straightening the cushions and rewetting his forehead cloth in the bathroom.

"I don't feel well," he explained as she placed the cloth back on his brow.

"I can tell."

"How long have I been out?"

"Two hours." She kissed the tip of his nose and sighed. "Just stay put this time, yeah?"

"Yeah." He nodded weakly, making Clara shake her head in a chuckle. She left the door open behind her and returned to the lower level of the house.

A quick dusting of the formal sitting room, lunch, giving John lunch, and deciding on what to make for dinner passed and the younger of her two boys began to cry, his lungs being able to hold a vast amount of air for someone so incredibly tiny. This time all he needed was attention, which was something that was definitely doable.

"So, what book do we read today?" Clara asked as she brought her son over to the bookshelf. "Winnie-the-Pooh? Peter Pan? How about some from Dad's collection? Timmy's Highland Adventure? Kittens Come Home?"

"Claaaraaa…" Drooping her shoulders, she walked back to her bedroom door, babe in-arms, and stood staring at John.

"Yes…?"

"I think I'm dying."

"John, you're not dying," she groaned.

"Yes; this is what dying feels like. I know it," he said. "I'm so sorry to do this to you, and right after Davey's born too…"

"You're being dramatic again," Clara reminded him. She made her way into the room and sat at the foot of their bed, holding Davey up so John could see his face. "See that, sweetie? Daddy's sick today, and every time Daddy's sick he thinks he's dying."

"…because I _am_ , Clara…"

"…but Daddy knows he can't die because he's got a very important appointment with Mister Brown in two weeks and it would be simply dreadful if he missed it." She glanced in John's direction, seeing that he was holding his arms out weakly. "Yes…?"

"Can I at least hold my bairn before I go? Let you and him be the last things I remember?"

"Not while I don't know what it is that order of chips gave you," Clara replied sternly. She put their son down on the mattress, thankful neither son nor husband were much capable of independent movement, and fetched some aspirin from the cabinet in the bathroom. Administering two to John, she knelt down next to the bed to watch him chase the pills down with some water. After giving her back the glass, he gently took his hand in hers, his grip feather-light and his gaze glassy.

"Please make sure our boy knows the good side of me," he pleaded. "I don't want him to know me as a photo album."

"You can do that yourself, I promise," she assured. "You won't make me a widow just yet—I won't allow it." A thought came to her and she smirked. "Were you ever like this for Ozzie?"

"Mam was good of taking care of us when we were sick, but that was a long time ago…" John mumbled something else, though he was asleep before he could finish his sentence.

"Oh… _'in sickness and in health'_ ," Clara smiled. She kissed him on the forehead and collected Davey, for she still had enough time to fit in a story before heading out to the shop. The little boy let out a soft noise as they reentered the nursery, which made her shake her head.

"Oh no, Daddy's not really dying. He's only afraid, is all," she said. She glanced down and saw a look on her son's face that was close enough to confusion as she ever saw on a three-week-old. "He's terrified he won't be there for you, but don't you worry. I'm confident you'll have both of us for a long time yet. Your father isn't the sort of man to just give in that easily." The boy gurgled again and Clara plucked Timmy's Highland Adventure from the shelf—it was only a matter of time before it was 'like father, like son,' and she was going to take advantage of the fact they weren't there yet.


	4. The Smith Siblings, 1919

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: Anonymous
> 
> Prompt: Could you do something with John right after WWI in The Time That We Love Best verse?
> 
> Originally Posted: 23 May 2015
> 
> Notes: 1008 words; takes place in 1919, making John nearly 28 and Sarah Jane somewhere in her mid-thirties; this also made me cry but it's the good sort of cry

Stepping off the bus, the uniformed young man took a look around the old neighborhood. Not much had changed in the five years since he had gone, which was somewhat of a comfort. John walked down the street to a house he knew all too well and found the key in the gatepost before letting himself in. Dust caked everything and the smell of must was overpowering. He immediately put his bag down in the foyer and began opening windows to let the cool breeze from outside in. Rummaging about in the kitchen, he found the cupboards and icebox bare—nothing even fit for a dormouse.

"Johnny…? Is that you?" a voice called out. John poked his head out into the hall and found his elder sister standing in the open doorway, a basket in her hand. He grinned madly and rushed over to her, scooping her up in a hug.

"It's so good to see you again," he choked into her shoulder before putting her back down. "They didn't tell me leave meant I got to have lie-ins and poke around whatever town didn't have enemy troops in it, or I would have been back as often as I could."

"Oh, I believe you," she chuckled. Sarah Jane held out the basket, prompting him to take it. "Here you go: one black sheep to another." John looked inside to find fresh bread and butter, with marmalade and sausage and even some tea and biscuits. "Saved a little bit, but I figured you'd have a hard time adjusting your first few days back."

"Thanks," he said. They went further into the house and sat down in the kitchen, where the dust they kicked up glimmered in the light shining in from outside. "So tell me, how are things since we last wrote? Dad still the same?"

"Grumpy and arrogant, as per usual," Sarah Jane grumbled. "Mam's trying on him, but she won't get anywhere."

"Uncle Jaime?"

"Beginning to lose it, I think, but you know that—been talking of flying boxes that disappear and loads of cousins we don't have."

"You?"

"Thinking about moving to London and getting a job down there, where no one grew up knowing Dad and Mam and our eccentric uncle," she scoffed. She glanced across the table at her brother and cracked a smile. "So, when do I get to meet this Mélanie of yours? I want this house _full_ of children for me to dote on, you hear? Absolutely falling from the rafters…"

"In time, in time," John laughed. "I have to write giving her the address first, then clean the place up, and get back on my feet before you can even _think_ about being an auntie." He trailed off and looked at the floor tiling, a frown creeping onto his face. "Granny was alright at the end, wasn't she?"

"Right as rain—she wanted you to have this place, John, I promise." Sarah Jane took her brother's hand and gave it a squeeze. "Hey, by the time Mélanie gets here, you'll have this place in top order, your old job at the studio back, and Dad'll be so excited at the very _idea_ of grandchildren he'll forget your entire row happened. As long as one of us gets back in the good, it'll be fine."

"…and if I don't?"

Sarah Jane let go of John's hand and sat back in her chair, leaning into it. "I know you saw a lot out there—I did too—and there's nothing you can change about it now. Things are looking _up_ now."

"Mam wrote to me about Johnny Walters," he replied quietly. He chewed his lip in thought, mulling the notion over. "You know, he wanted me to go with him into the Navy. He said it'd mess with the recruiters by having two John Smiths from Clydebank, both born on Walters Street."

"At risk of speaking ill of those who died in service, Johnny Walters was a moron," she reminded him. "I don't care if you are my kid brother and kid brothers normally end up morons, but you have never been anything like Johnny Walters. He didn't deserve what he got, but had he joined the Army with you I'm sure he would have found a way to get in the line of something dangerous somewhere." She stopped when she saw her brother's eyes begin to well with tears, still unable to look up from the floor. "Hey, hey… it's okay… _you came back_."

"I'm glad you think so," John said. He shrugged and breathed in deeply, heavy on the exhale, as he changed his staring point from the floor to the ceiling. "1920 is gonna be my year, sis. Mélanie and I… we'll make it work. I'll even get a job at Dad's if I have to; I swear it."

"Make it be a last resort, because Dad doesn't work anymore," Sarah Jane mentioned. Her brother looked at her with a cocked eyebrow and confusion splattered all over his face. "Took a pension plan and handed the reins over to that William bloke from two streets over, grumbling how it should've been you."

"Okay: I'll go work for Will if the studio closes up while I've got a wife and two kids to feed and one on the way and the only thing keeping us in this house is me owning it."

"That's the brother I know," Sarah Jane chuckled. "Now, dry those eyes and tell me more about Mélanie, yeah? What do the two of you have planned?"

John's face lit up as he thought about the French woman he met what seemed like so long ago now. "She said she wants children right away, and wants to work at a library in town once they're in school. I doubt we'll much need the money, but it'll be just perfect… I know it will. My wife will be the loveliest on Wissforn, because she'll be the best person in all of Clydebank."

"I'm glad, Johnny. I'm really glad."


	5. 23 November 1953

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: Anonymous/TheOddityWriter
> 
> Prompt: In which Davey and Oswynn sample Clara's soufflés as she sets them out to cool...
> 
> Originally Posted: 17 June 2015
> 
> Notes: 638 words; if I had grown up closer to the cousin I'm 11-ish months apart from I can see our tiny selves having done this; takes place Monday, November 23, 1953 (let's assume there's a school holiday for some reason, because that was a Monday)

It was John's birthday.

The past couple years had been a steady climb upwards when it came to Clara baking him his birthday soufflé. To be entirely honest, the entirety of their marriage there had been something that had kept her from properly utilizing her mother's Blackpool-famous recipe to its fullest extent. Between a temperamental oven, the lack of an oven, nerves and stress from work and children, it was a miracle she didn't set the kitchen on fire some years. This year, however… this year she was going to make it happen.

Clara took the soufflé out of the oven and set it down on the kitchen table. She poured some treacle over the top, zig-zagging a design over it, and stared at it with a tremendous feeling of accomplishment.

"John!" she called. "Your lunch is ready!" A moment passed and she didn't hear a response. " _John_ …?" Leaving the kitchen, she made her way up the stairs and heard the radio in her husband's studio turned up rather high.

' _Not_ _ **again**_ ,' she grumbled. Clara swung open the door and barged into the room, ready to lecture, only to find no one in sight. The chair at John's desk was empty, which was unusual for there being music on the radio and the door shut. Had he been in the bathroom, he would have left the door open—it was what he did both before the children and as of late now that Davey and Wynn understood they were not to touch Daddy's work things without permission—making the situation seem odd. She entered the room and shut off the radio, giving way to silence.

Suddenly, Clara heard the telltale squeak of unoiled hinges and gasped as she was lifted into the air by a set of strong arms. John had been hiding behind the door itself, waiting until his wife was fully in the room before scooping her up and playfully burying his unshaven face into her neck.

"You _idiot_ ," she laughed. "I've been calling you; lunch is ready."

"Och, you're all I need to get through the day," he replied lowly, exaggerating his accent and nipping at her earlobe.

" _Please_ , John, before the stupid thing falls and it's thirteen in a row." He put her down in reply and allowed her to take his hand and lead him down the stairs. They entered the kitchen only to find that the table was empty—there was no trace of the soufflé anywhere.

"Is it still sitting in the oven?" John wondered. The fact that his traditional birthday lunch was nowhere in sight did not bother him. His wife, however…

"Those children _better_ wish that Strax somehow found his way in the house again," Clara hissed. She stormed off into the rest of the house in an attempt to find her kids. John instead waited until he could hear her head up the stairs before he pulled back the curtain that hid the plumbing to the kitchen sink. There were Davey and Wynn with sticky faces and fingers and a heavily-pawed soufflé sitting between them.

"Would the two of you like some milk?" he asked. The two nodded, unable to talk through a combination of treacle and terror. Their father poured them each a small canning jar's worth of milk and passed it to them, sliding the curtain back in place before their mother came fuming back in.

"Did you find them?" John asked.

"No; they probably crawled through the hole in the garden wall to go play with the neighbors. If they're not back in a couple hours we'll go looking for them." She huffed angrily, trying to figure out both what happened to the soufflé _and_ what to make her husband for lunch now that his original had vanished.

What she'd never know wouldn't hurt her.


	6. Clara's Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: TheOddityWriter
> 
> Prompt: TTTWLB-verse, in which after Clara calls Collette in Chapter 76, she dreams of Victoria and of what could have been.
> 
> Originally Posted: 17 July 2015
> 
> Notes: 1969 words; takes place some vague time around chapter 76, April 1953; not part of the main storyline because it'd end up being a wee bit on the repetitive side; what you currently are reading is Attempt #2 thanks to scrapping Attempt #1 and starting over; idk you may cry because I cried too and that just means there's an emotional connection

The house was full of running children—only one more than usual, but with the addition of Orson all bets were off and everything was hectic. With John off to the publishers' (which was done entirely on-purpose), and reinforcements not coming for another few hours, Clara sank down on the sitting room couch and closed her eyes, trying to block out the sound of feet stomping and small voices shrieking about fauns and hypnotic Turkish delight. Eventually it faded and she almost felt rested, until there was a slight tug on her blouse sleeve.

"Give Mummy just a minute, yeah?" she pleaded in her half-awake stupor.

"…but Mam, we got t' get back home before Da gets off work."

Clara's eyes snapped open and she inhaled sharply as she bolted upright. The young girl before her jumped back, her own brown eyes growing wide.

"Are you okay?" the girl asked, her voice incredibly Scottish.

"Y-Yeah," Clara nodded. She stood up shakily and looked around: it was her office in the Clydebank primary school. There were the drawings from students on the wall, the gouges in the floor the cabinet made during her and John's first big fight, the slightest hint of rosemary still clung to the walls… she looked at the girl, all large eyes and soft brown curls that fell past her shoulders and framed her face. "I… I just had the weirdest dream." She shook her head. "No, it doesn't matter—what were we going to make for dinner again, Victoria? I forgot."

"You forget a _lot_ , don't you Mam?" the girl giggled. She grabbed her knapsack as Clara took her purse and tote with marking and they headed out the door. "Shepard's pie! You peeled the potatoes this morning, remember?"

"I guess I did," Clara said. They closed up the classroom and began the walk through Clydebank, back home to the flat.

As they made their way through the streets, something odd kept pulling at the back of Clara's brain. It was nagging her: this wasn't right. The neighborhood was a bit rougher than she remembered and things seemed more grey and dreary. She'd look down at her daughter, holding her hand and behaving as well as she could, and then attempt to shake the notion. No; it was right. She had her daughter, she had her health, she had her husband, and they had a roof over their heads. What was wrong about that?

The sun was beginning to set as they finally made it back to the flat block. They went up to their floor, said hello to Mrs. Mason as they passed her in the corridor, and entered their flat. Victoria went to the corner and pulled back the curtain that separated her area from the rest of the sitting room and flopped down on her mattress face-first, nuzzling her pillow.

"How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?" Clara sighed as she placed her purse next to the door. "One day you're going to break your bed and _then_ where will you sleep?"

"With you and Da," the girl giggled, rolling over and off the bed. She scrambled towards where the beaten television set sat on a cabinet and turned it so it faced her section of the room. Once it was in place she turned it on and laid back down on her bed, laying on her stomach to watch the flickering screen.

Shaking her head, Clara went into the kitchen and got to work. She placed her marking in the corner and hit the knob on the stovetop to begin boiling the potatoes that were already sitting in a pot of water. A bit of carrot, corn, beans, and onion went in the bottom of a pan, after she found them sitting in the fridge, and it was off to begin chopping up some roast that had also been leftover. Clara was nearly to the point where she could drain the potatoes and mash them when the front door opened and Victoria gasped happily.

"Da! You're home!" she giggled. Clara could hear John greet their daughter, a smile evident in his voice.

"There's my little darling," he said. "Why don't you turn the set and we can watch something together before dinner?"

"It's a plan!" Victoria replied. John then shuffled into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around Clara from behind, leaning on her carefully as she arranged the veg in the pan.

"Hey," he murmured, voice drawn and weary. Tired lips and a day's worth of beard found her neck as the scent of metal and oil found her nose. "Was a rough one."

"You're home now; go ahead and relax," she assured. John pressed a kiss behind her ear and muttered his thanks before letting go and walking over towards a cupboard. Clara watched him—was his hair always that white—did his back always bend and shoulders droop like that—as he poured himself a whisky and made his way back towards the sitting room. He laughed through a groan as he sat down and Victoria threw herself into his side.

Potatoes mashed, pie baked, crust browned, dinner served and eaten and cleaned up. Clara found herself occupying one end of the kitchen table with her marking while Victoria took up the other with her schoolwork. John was in the sitting room, quietly working on his second drink as he watched something on the telly. Working quietly, mother and daughter went through their papers with ease, despite the television in one room and the neighbors shouting through the wall.

"Mam…?" Victoria asked, keeping her voice hushed.

"Yes, dear?"

"What…" She looked down at her history book, embarrassed. "What do you think about me becoming a doctor? A really good doctor, so good I can work wherever I'd like?"

Clara blinked at the girl. "Not that I'm telling you 'no', but what brought this on? You're only in Primary Five…"

"Yeah, but Da's old and his job is rough," she answered quietly. "I want t' take care of him, take care of you both… get us _out_ of this place…"

"Victoria Claire Smith, there is _nothing_ wrong with coming from working stock, do you hear me?" Clara said sternly. "We are good people, our neighbors are good people, and there is nothing to run away from."

"I know, but it'd be nice t' have a room of my own."

Her mother exhaled heavily and reached across the table, holding her hand. "We work with what we've been given, and this is what we have. Many people have it a lot worse."

"I know."

"…but I will tell you something," Clara said. "You can go to school for whatever you want to and it will make your Dad and I nothing short of proud. We will support you a hundred percent of the way."

"Thanks, Mam," Victoria nodded. She opened her mouth to continue, but was unknowingly cut off by her father in the room over.

"Sweetling? Can you please get your old da one more?"

"Coming," she answered. Victoria let go of Clara's hand and went into the sitting room. She came back with John's glass and refilled it with whisky, taking it back to him before returning to her chair in the kitchen. "Hey Mam?"

"Yes Victoria?"

"What do you think it'd be like if Da could go back t' books?" she wondered. "Do you think we'd still live here?"

"No—possibly in a flat somewhere else, Glasgow proper or even London," Clara chuckled, going back to her marking. "Why?"

"Oh, sometimes I think about it," Victoria admitted. "It won't happen, because books are harder than they seem, but sometimes I imagine us living in a house—maybe in _London_ —and Da works at home and I've got a little sister."

"Not a little brother?" Clara smirked.

"Maybe one of them too, but a sister _definitely_ ," the girl grinned. "We'd live on a nice street, where the neighbors don't fight, and I can walk t' school on my own, and there's room for Granddad t' come visit."

' _…but we have that_ ,' Clara thought. A jolt ran through her and she stood up quickly, knocking her chair down to the floor.

"This is wrong."

"Mam…? What are you talking about?" Victoria asked. "What's wrong?"

" _This_ ," she replied. "I… I shouldn't be here… oh no…" The walls felt as if they were closing in on her and she rushed to the window, forcing the rusting hinges open. Cool air filtered in from outside, only partway soothing her.

"Clara, are you alright?" John asked. She turned around and saw her husband—no, a shadow of her husband, standing in the kitchen doorway with half a whisky in-hand. He put the glass down on the counter and approached her, arms open and face wrought with worry. "Here, everything will be alright."

"No, it's _not_ alright!" she snapped. "Where's Sarah Jane?!" He froze mid-step, his eyebrows arching in shock. "Where's Luke? Gwen and Ruby? Danny and Orson? Jenny and the Trasks? **_Our own children?!_** "

"Victoria's our only child," John said slowly, almost deliberate. "Remember? You can't have any more. _We_ can't have any more."

"David and Oswynne… I had them, I should know!"

"Now calm down, Clara. You're just having another episode. You need to calm down…"

"What about Grynden Street and our old beat-up piece of shit car and your contract illustrating books and… and…" She broke down into tears, allowing herself to be wrapped up in John's arms. He lifted her up, arms and back straining to do so, and carried her into the sitting room, taking a seat on the couch. Everything about this felt so wrong, from the overpowering stench of burnt steel and sweat coming off her husband's clothes, to the ring-shaped stain on the armrest where his nightly drink sat. She kept on crying, even after John turned off the television and began to rock her gently. A while later and Victoria came into the room, a mug of steaming, sweet tea in-hand.

"Oh, there's my big girl," John said, his voice rumbling in his chest. He took the tea and brought it to Clara's lips, allowing her slow sips. "How's that?" She nodded in reply, throat still too raw for words. "Alright now, let's calm ourselves down so we can go to bed, okay?" He allowed her to take the mug herself and drink from it carefully. Craning his neck, John began to litter Clara's forehead and hair with kisses sharp with the scent of the distillery and pained from the distressed noise that came along behind them. She closed her eyes and leaned into him.

"What happened to us?" she finally choked out.

"I don't know," he said. "Everything seems fine to me."

"No John, it's not… it's really not…"

"Clara." He shook her shoulder. "Clara, _wake up_."

She gasped as she did so, grabbing at his shirt instinctively. Trembling, she glanced around the room; it was the house in London. John's portfolio lay hurriedly discarded on the floor and she was curled up in his lap. Davey, Wynn, and Orson were all peeking around the doorway, curiously trying to figure out what was going on.

"John? Do you remember that fright you had before Davey was born?" Clara asked softly, tilting her face up to look at him. He was greyer, more vibrant, less worn at every end.

"You dreamt it too?" he marveled. She shook her head.

"Close, but I'll tell you later."

"No wonder I found you sobbing into the cushions." John held her a bit tighter, stroking her hair. "Mr. Brown fell ill during the meeting, so I got out early. How about I make us all some lunch?"

"Please," she replied. "I'd like that."


	7. First Flutter, Take Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: Knowing how keen John was before about the idea, what was it like for him and Clara to feel Davey's first movements when they were expecting him?
> 
> Originally posted: 07 August 2015
> 
> Notes: 552 words; kinda short but I think it gets the job done

It started out as Victoria had done: just the tiniest flutter as she laid in bed, safe and sound in John's arms. The smells of the shipyard were replaced with fragrant paints and pencil woods, and the bedroom was more spacious, but those were all things that made her smile even more. She felt her mostly-flat stomach and grinned, trying not to cry and wake her husband up.

Sleep came, as did the morning, and eventually the Smiths rose for the day. It was John's turn to make breakfast and he did so happily while Clara sat at the table and browsed through the morning paper. The moment was a calm and quiet one, with the majority of the noise coming from the gas of the stovetop and the sizzling of bacon.

"Tell me: do you have any plans for the day?" he asked while sliding bacon onto her plate. She shrugged in reply, nearly noncommittal.

"I was going to head down to the grocer and pick up some things for the next couple days, maybe have a chat with Jenny if she's around, read a bit, you know… try not to go crazy."

"You're incredible for not going crazy this far," he replied, putting the frying pan back on the stove. "I remember the days between jobs and they were not fun."

"Probably moreso now that the jobs involved are teacher and mother." She put down the paper and held her husband's hand; him being between the yard and the publishers' was nothing to trivialize, nor was when he was attempting to get into a publishers' before they even met, but the situation they were in now was nerve-wracking, since it involved bringing another life into the equation. He squeezed her hand back in understanding—it was alright.

Breakfast continued on as normal until Clara felt the baby move again. She stopped chewing her food and involuntarily clenched onto John's hand. He looked over at her, worried for bairn and bride.

"Are you alright?"

"Oh… yeah, sorry." She let go of his hand and brought her own to her lap. "It's nothing."

"Don't lie to me, Clara—what's wrong?"

"Nothing's _wrong_ , it's just…" She trailed off, not sure how to verbalize things without getting him too excited. "The backflips on Mum's bladder are starting a bit early this time."

"Oh, I see," he replied. John beamed as he shoved his plate off-center and held his arm open. Clara shoved her plate over and stood up so she could sit in his lap. He pulled her in close and rested his hand across her stomach, rubbing his nose in the crook of her neck before continuing eating.

"There's no way you can feel them now," she groaned, nearly half a chuckle. "The baby needs to get a bit bigger before that happens."

"I don't care; Dad's ready and waiting for his wee troublemaker," he smirked. "You think we've got a gymnast on our hands?"

"We have a _baby_ coming, now stop trying to plan everything about them," she sighed. Clara turned and kissed John on the cheek. "We'll figure out who they are as they grow up, how about that?"

"They're _still_ supporting Rangers and none of that tangerine business," he retorted. "Not moving on that one."

"We'll see about that one."


	8. The Football Injury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: Anonymous
> 
> Prompt: John fractures his right arm during football play with the kids, at first he says that's okay but it turns out it isn't at all, he can't draw for a while and gets himself further and further into depression 'cause he thinks he might not be able to draw properly ever. Clara and the kids notice his state and are there to calm him down and help with his issues. Later, everything gets okay, he may draw even better than before)
> 
> Originally posted: 08 August 2015
> 
> Notes: 710 words; not as truly dire of a situation as in the prompt but that's because John's a hypochondriac

Laying in bed, John stared up at the ceiling with a dire expression. Unshaven, in his pants and vest, and his right arm in a sling _and_ a splint, he looked the epitome of pathetic as the midmorning sunshine filled the room and his daughter peeked in on him from the ajar door. She softly padded down the stairs and into the kitchen, where her mother and brother sat.

"Daddy _still_ hasn't moved," Wynn frowned. "Is he gonna be okay?"

"Of course he will, sweetie," Clara said. She stroked her daughter's hair and gave her an assuring smile. "Dad's always been a worrier when it comes to health. He tries not to show it around you kids, but he if he gets sick he often thinks he's dying." In his chair, Davey shrank down, whimpering sadly.

"I really didn't mean to hurt him," he sniffled. "It was an accident."

"David James, of _course_ it was an accident; you're not the kind of person to trip someone on-purpose," she replied. Clara knew it was only going to be a matter of time that John got hurt while playing with the kids, no matter how well he tended to himself, and the only thing she wished was that the children were a little bit older so they could understand better. "All we need to do is encourage him as he gets better."

"…but, how do we do that when he won't even get up?" Wynn wondered. "He takes care of us when we're sick, but he won't let us take care of him!"

"That's because your dad is a very silly man, and a very big idiot," Clara chuckled. "I think I know how we can cheer him up."

* * *

He was useless. A simple fall while playing football with his own children made him entirely useless to them. There was no way he was allowed to draw for at least a couple weeks, and the thought made him terrified. He didn't even know if he would have the same amount of dexterity as before once he was healed—small motor skills such as drawing often were damaged by an injury, no matter how small. The effects could be temporary, but the worst-case scenarios kept going through his head. As much as he wanted to support his family, he was no longer the vibrant young steed he once could claim to be, and that worried him. Would he be able to draw again? Was there the possibility that his art style could forcibly change? What about writing? His entire hand could become disrupted, and he'd have to relearn everything from scratch. Would Clara have to abandon the kids to go back to work? If that happened, would he be able to fill the void she created with his bad arm and aging body? The entire thought process terrified him.

"Daddy! Time to get up!" Wynn announced. He turned his head and glanced over at the door, seeing his children entering the room. The two carried a tea tray between them, which they set down on the vanity before scrambling up onto the bed. They hugged him tight, being mindful of his arm, and each gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"Now what's this?" he asked. Davey wiggled his way underneath his back and lifted him up to a sitting position, while Wynn stuffed a bunch of pillows behind him.

"We're gonna take care of you, Dad!" Davey explained. He helped his sister stuff pillows behind their father and then tumbled to the floor. "You'll get better soon! Don't worry!"

"We don't know that for sure, son," John sighed. "These things happen, and…" He was cut off by Wynn covering his mouth with her hands.

"Only pudding brains give up," she scolded, furrowing her brow crossly. She then accepted the mug of tea from her brother and held it out towards John's face. "Now drink and feel good!"

Taking the first sip with trepidation, John was surprised to find that it was perfect—sweet enough and not scalding. He let Wynn tip the mug to allow him more to drink and finished the entire mug.

"Good?" she asked. He nodded, attempting to hold back tears as he beamed at his kids.

" _Excellent_."


	9. Bedtime Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: "Time" 'verse again. In theory, would John use either one or both of his kids at certain ages as a test audience for one of his new stories? Or just a basic "one more story before bedtime, please, Daddy?" kind of situation.
> 
> Originally posted: 22 August 2015
> 
> Notes: 1006 words; takes place November 1951, meaning John just turned 60, Clara is 32, Davey is 3, and Wynn is 2

"Daddy? Can we hear a story?" Wynn asked sleepily. John glanced over at his daughter from the toy chest (where he was currently stuffing away the things that hadn't quite made it before bedtime) and cocked his head.

"What sort of story would you like to hear, sweetling?"

"I dunno, a story," she said. She rolled in bed to look at her brother across the room. "Do you want a story, Davey?"

"I guess," he replied. The boy hugged his stuffed owl tight and mused on the idea. "What story will you read tonight, Daddy?"

"Maybe I won't read a story," he said. "Maybe, I can _tell_ you a story."

"Oooooh, that sounds nice," Wynn hummed. She and Davey both watched their father as he took the chair from along the wall and set it between them, sitting down.

"Once, in the days before Margaret the Maid and even the MacAlpins, there was a Scottish prince who was a very noble, yet awkward lad," he began. "In those days, the stronger you were, the more likely you were to survive things like thieves and wars and assassins, but this prince was lucky enough to live to adulthood without being able to do things such as throwing hammers and tossing cabers."

"I thought you said caber tossing isn't much older than Granny Smith's daddy," Davey interrupted.

"That's true, but we're ignoring the Victorians for the premise of the story," John affirmed, not bothering to explain further. "This prince did not mind doing things that the other princes, his brothers and cousins, did not wish to bother with. He was far away from rule and did not want it, nor did he want glory on the battlefield, so he stayed in the castle doing things like taking notes for the king and drawing plans for his new fortifications."

"Did he like doing those things?" Davey wondered.

"Yes, he did, which made him seem like a very odd man to the maids at court." John smirked as he tucked Wynn in, the girl having fallen asleep quickly. "He had almost negotiated a marriage, because that's what you did in those days, when a war broke out between kingdoms. The king needed him at the front to draw his battle maps and plans, since the other princes barely knew how to read, let alone draw or write."

"Why wouldn't someone know how to read or write?"

"Lots of people don't, because they're too busy to sit down and learn," he explained. "Even today there are people that can't read very well because they never had the chance."

"That's sad," Davey whimpered, curling around his stuffed owl. His father stroked his hair in an attempt to comfort him.

"It's sad in today's world, yes, but the princes in the story were raised to believe that as long as they could wield a sword in battle that it was all the might they needed. Long years passed and the war ended, taking the lives of many of the prince's brothers and cousins, and taking a toll on the land. When the prince came home, he found that the castle had been raided while he was away, and that the maid he was to marry was no more. The prince was heartbroken and mourned the loss of his bride alongside the women who cried for their husbands."

"This is a really sad story," Davey muttered.

"It starts that way, but that doesn't mean that it ends that way," John said. "The prince went back to work, writing and drawing and doing what he could to help the kingdom get on its feet again. Knowing this particular prince was not as valuable a son-in-law to most lords as the remaining princes, he did not force a marriage upon him. Smarts was not always easy to come by, and by keeping him close, the king knew he had an advisor with no motive other than the good of the lands.

"Time went by and the war that the young prince had served in started up again, except now he was an old man with strained eyes and grey in his hair. While he watched the other princes ride off to battle, he stayed home as a guardian of the home, so that the castle may not be raided again without a fight.

"One day, he returned from training to find himself seated in the dinner hall with a lovely young woman. He made her laugh and the sound was one of the most beautiful things he had ever heard. The prince was worried that the woman, a visitor from an allied kingdom, would not be interested in someone who could barely hold his sword and preferred books to battles." John fussed over Davey's blanket, making sure his son was snug as he drifted further towards sleep.

"What did the lady do?" the boy asked, his eyelids growing heavy. "Did she turn the man down?"

"No; she could have, but the young woman had left her own kingdom in search of adventure," John continued. "War was not an adventure to her, nor were warriors obsessed with fighting and contests of strength. The prince could tell her stories, and he would not abandon her in search of a glorious death, and before she realized it she had fallen just in love with him as he was with her. When he proposed marriage at the end of the war, which he told the king would strengthen the bond of the allied kingdoms, she said yes immediately, knowing she had found the one she was meant to be with."

"…and they lived happily ever after," Davey said. He nestled into his pillow, finally asleep.

"Yes. They and their children lived in happiness, without knowing war or want, and the joy that the prince thought missed him remained in abundance until the end of his days." After kissing both his children on the forehead, John put the chair back and turned off the light, closing the door softly behind him.


	10. Randall the Owl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: How exactly did Randall the Attack/Guardian Owl come into little Davey Smith's life?
> 
> Originally posted: 13 September 2015
> 
> Notes: 571 words; takes place sometime vaguely within a month after the drama-llama moment that is chapter 70 (so roughly January-February 1951)

Davey Smith had Owl as long as he could remember. Granted that wasn't a very long time, but it was long enough for the little boy of three and a half to become rather curious about the toy's origins, amongst the origins of other things. It was Owl though, that really sparked his interest, one lazy winter afternoon.

"Mummy? When I get Owl?" he asked, holding it up so it could see over the kitchen table. Clara looked over from the letter she was writing and chuckled.

"Your granddad gave you your owl," she explained. "It was your present for coming home from the hospital."

"Oh, okay," he nodded. He then examined his toy, a frown on his face. "What Owl's name?"

"Just Owl," his mother said. "Why? Do you think Owl should have a name?"

"Yes," he said. "Owl stays with me always. He protects me from scary things at night! Owl need name if Owl that nice." He thought for a moment—Owl needed a really _good_ name, a proper name. It was very important. "Mummy? What Granddad's Trouble Name?"

"His Trouble Name…?" It took her a couple seconds, but her face lit up when she realized what he meant. "Oh, you mean his middle name? It's James, just like yours."

" _He_ name after Unca Jamie too?"

"No, after a friend of _my_ granddad's; we were just lucky that your granddad is a David James as well, that's all." She stroked her son's hair and gave him a smile. "Do you want to call Owl 'James' instead?"

Davey pondered for a moment. "No. Owl need _new_ name."

"Maybe you can name your owl Idris… that was Daddy's mummy's Trouble Name."

"…but Granny Smith was a _granny_ , not a granddad," Davey insisted. "I think about this, okay Mummy?"

"Okay, sweetie," Clara smirked. She watched as he bounced out of the kitchen and out of sight.

Davey wandered into the sitting room, where he saw his sister smashing blocks together in her playpen. He sat down on the other side of the bars and thought carefully.

"Dabey! Pway!" Wynn insisted. She took her teddy bear that was sitting next to her and smushed it against the playpen wall. "Pway!"

"No, Wynnie," her brother pouted. "I need to think!"

"Pway!"

"Think!"

Frustrated, Davey stood up and went over to the radio. He clicked it on and turned it up, drowning out his sister's demands with the last station that their parents had playing. There was swing music on, so he jumped around to dance. Wynn stood in her pen and bounced in place as well, suddenly satiated.

After a few minutes, the music stopped and a voice replaced it. " _That was 'Song of India' by Tommy Dorsey and his orchestra. Next we have 'Take the A Train', as done by Duke Ellington and his band. This is Randall Withers, for BBC Radio…_ " Another song then began playing, and Davey's face lit up.

"MUMMY! MUMMY! I KNOW!" he shouted, rushing back into the kitchen. He jumped up and down next to Clara excitedly, holding Owl above his head. "I KNOW NAME NOW!"

"Oh really? What's Owl's new name?"

"Randall!" he exclaimed. "Owl now Randall!"

"Okay… that's a very nice name," Clara said, unsure how to properly react. "Why don't you go show Daddy?"

"Yes! I show Daddy!" He then zoomed out of the kitchen and towards the stairs, leaving his mother to laugh.


	11. Photo Album

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: John and/or Clara is looking at a family photo album, one or more of the kids is all "Whatcha lookin' at?" and various little flashbacks or cute nostalgia stories follow.
> 
> Originally posted: 8 October 2015
> 
> Notes: I wrote this to commemorate the one year anniversary of TTTWLB, which was on 8 October; 1057 words; takes place October 1952

It was a lazy autumn day as John and Clara sat together on the couch, legs stretched out along the cushions and arms entwined around one another. With the weekend there, both were free to relax as the kids played with each other throughout the house and in the back garden. They were comfortable enough to begin drifting off, only coming back to full attention when two pairs of tiny, hyperactive feet came stomping through the sitting room.

"Mummy, Daddy, look what we found!" Wynn announced excitedly. Her parents looked and saw that she was holding a photo album high above her head.

"It's got a lot of pictures in it! Can you tell us what's going on?!" Davey added.

"Sure," Clara said, shifting so that she was sitting more upright and less slumped over into her husband. Once John swung his legs back so that his feet touched the floor, their kids climbed up on the couch between them and opened the album to a specific page.

"Okay, who's that with Auntie Sarah Jane?" Wynn asked. She pointed at a photo of her windblown aunt, decades younger and wrapped up in an unfamiliar man's arms, as well as his scarf.

"Oh… that was her boyfriend for a number of years—hated bringing him around the house because your Granddad Smith would get grumpy afterward," John explained. "He and I were okay mates, but we stopped talking once we got hit with your auntie's mean streak."

"She told us about that," Wynn said. "Is that the boyfriend that left her at the train station?"

"Him and I both, on total accident mind you," he frowned. "Anything else you wanted to see?"

"Yeah, this one!" Davey exclaimed. He flipped to a page that had his parents standing with their friend Collette on her wedding day. "I don't think I've seen Auntie Collie in something like that before."

"That was at her wedding reception," Clara said. "That's the fanciest I've ever seen Auntie Collie, both before that day and after."

"…that's 'cause she worked with you on ships, right Daddy?" Wynn asked.

"That's part of the reason," John chuckled. "She's never been very good at things like pretty dresses and keeping out of the dirt—it's been like that since she was your age."

"Did you see the photo of Daddy and Auntie Collie while at work?" Clara wondered. The children both shook their heads, so she found the page that had the photograph in question and pointed it out. There was a bunch of people gathered around for the photo: John was towards the back while Collette more around the middle. At the exact center of the group was a woman in pressed clothes and a fancy hat.

"Who's that?" Davey asked, pointing at the woman who seemed very out-of-place. "Was she the ship-building-place's owner?"

"No… you know how we have a new Queen?" Clara waited for the kids to nod in reply before continuing. "That's _her_ auntie. She's a _princess_."

"Oh wow," both the children marveled. They stared at the photo, intently trying to make out any of the other faces.

"Where's that cross lady?" Davey asked.

"Miss Verity? She's right there," John said, pointing out his old coworker. It always made him chuckle when his kids referred to Verity as "that cross lady", considering how cross she really was with him over the years for no reason whatsoever other than getting his life together later than most. He turned the page and found an image of Clara feeding Donny, making a face as she tried to get the infant to open his mouth for the spoon. "Now who is that?"

"That's Donny!" Davey said. "That's at your flat, right?"

"It was," Clara replied. She kissed the top of her son's head and smoothed out his hair. "We often babysat Donny, since we didn't have any kids of our own."

"That's 'cause you waited until after the war to have us," Davey stated, repeating something said to him long ago.

"Correct," John said. His heart sank a little, but with one arm around his wife and the other occupied with holding the album, it didn't stay down for long. "We wanted to have children on-purpose until after the fighting stopped and we could move to London, because this is where we wanted to raise you kids."

"…and you had to wait until after the war because London liked to explode at random!" Wynn shouted, waving around her arms for emphasis.

"Now who told you that?" Clara asked. She raised an eyebrow as her daughter grew sheepish, already knowing the offending party's identity.

"Mr. Strax," she replied. "He said lots of things exploded, and that's why when we go into town, sometimes there's ruined buildings.

"That's right, but not completely," John said. "Bad people threw bombs at London, or made otherwise good people throw bombs or else they were fired from their job. Other places got out just as bad or worse, whether they were good or bad or a little of both."

"Mummy, where's the photo of Miss Gwen and Miss Ruby?" Davey asked. "Wynnie and I looked everywhere in here, but it's not in this book."

"I must have put it in a different album," she replied. Actually, she had it set aside in her room so she could take it to find a frame the following week, but she wasn't going to tell him that yet. It was a little miracle that the camera with that negative survived the bombing of the Wissforn house intact, and if she could find a frame for the one, she could have John make a duplicate and give it to them as a surprise Christmas gift.

"Really?! Come on Wynnie! Let's go find the other photo books!" he decided. He and his sister both slid off the couch and began to run out of the room, storming up the stairs to look for the albums.

"Forget a never-ending battery—just attach a wire to a small child and they'll have enough energy to power all of England for a year," Clara sighed. She took the album and snuggled into her husband's side, slowly perusing the pages. "When will it not be hard, John?"

"I don't know, but it's easier knowing I've got the three of you," he said gently.


	12. Last Night in A Full Nest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: So who was the more emotional/weepy/sobbing mess when the kids eventually moved on to university-John or Clara?
> 
> Originally posted: 10 October 2015
> 
> Notes: 742 words; takes place late August 1967, meaning both Wynn and Davey are 18, Clara is 48, and John is 75; I kinda got a bit tear-eyed while writing it but that's just because poor John

Sitting up in bed, John reached over for the clock on the nightstand—half-past three. He put it back down and got out of bed, sleepily shuffling out the room and into the hall. The door to his studio was wide-open, as it normally was, but the remaining two doors were shut. They were plastered over with all sort of photos and clippings, from the Beatles and the Who, to James Bond and Emma Peel. He knew that just beyond the wooden barriers his children were sleeping, their last night before moving into student housing at their university. Heading down the stairs, he avoided looking at the boxes sitting in the foyer ready to be packed. He wasn't ready, he'd _never_ be ready, and the thought twisted his stomach.

He busied himself with making tea, catching the kettle before it whistled loudly and woke up the others in the house. Rosehip tea was always comforting to him, though all it did for Clara was remind her of the war. They had a lot of it during the early years of their marriage, that was true, but he had plenty of it as a young man, back in his university days and while he was scraping about to survive. To him, it was assurance that he had made it, despite everything that tried to hold him back.

"John?" He looked up and saw Clara standing there, housecoat thrown over her nightie and arms folded over her chest. She was staring at him, head tilted to the side. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm… no." He lowered his eyes down towards his mug. "Where'd the time go?"

"You were there, you should know," she replied. Clara sat down in the chair next to her husband and took his hand in hers. "By the beginning of next term, we'll be pushing them out the door."

"I just… I want as much time with them as possible, and…"

"…and we've been over this: you are in excellent shape. I don't care if you _are_ your dad's age when he passed on, because you are neither sick nor worn out. You're still _working_ , for crying out loud," she said in assurance. "Look at me, John. Look at me now." She put one hand on his chin and turned his head towards her. "I have no doubt in my mind that you are not only going to beat Uncle Jamie's record, but blast it out of the water. You'll walk Wynn down the aisle and hold our grandchildren—I can feel it."

"I want to, I really do, but…" He choked up, unable to continue. John sniffled, trying to hold in his tears, though was largely unsuccessful as they began to stream down his face.

"Hey, hey, hey, now don't think like that," she crooned. Clara stood and went to his side, hugging his shoulders and rubbing his back. "I'm not letting you decide that you are going to mope yourself to death. You _will_ be Granddad, and not just because Mickey refuses to call you anything else."

"I don't know how Gwen and Luke keep that boy's head straight on him," he cried, unable to do much else. "Clara, I'm _scared_."

"I know you are," she sighed. She kissed her husband's fluff of hair and hugged him again. "Just don't think that you're the only one."

He thought on that for a moment, processing that. "What… what do you mean by that?"

"We're all scared for you, John, but that's just because that's natural," she explained. "The way you burst into tears and hug the kids doesn't help much, but trust me… we are all hoping you make it plenty past where your dad and uncle did. Come on… Sarah Jane's still around. That's reassuring, yeah?"

"Sarah Jane doesn't count—she does things just to get a rise out of people."

"John, come to bed," Clara said. "Before you know it, having just Dillon and Flynn in the house is going to feel great. Do you want to know why?"

"I give up."

"We won't have to lock our door anymore when we want a bit of private time," she murmured in his ear. Giggling, she helped him up from the chair and they began to walk to the staircase hand-in-hand. "That will put you right to sleep without a care in the world, I can tell."

"I hope so, Clara," he replied. "I really do hope so."


	13. The Bairns Get A Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: Tag teaming parents in the middle of the night because poor little Davey and Wynn have succumbed to the same cold. Baby cuddles and loving parent adorableness follow.
> 
> Originally posted: 17 October 2015
> 
> Notes: 698 words; kinda reminds me of how I caught the chicken pox in kindergarten, which meant BOTH my younger brothers (at the time) also caught the chicken pox and it was hell for my mom; takes place about October or so 1950

"Mummy… ucky…" Davey whined, holding his arms up and out. Clara bent her knees and patted him on the head, too busy with bouncing Wynn to pick him up.

"I know you don't feel good, sweetie," she said sweetly. "Wynn doesn't feel good either, and she can do even less about it."

"Eee go sleeps! Davey turn wif Mummy!" He hopped in place, falling on his rear due to his off-kilter sense of balance. The boy sniffled and began to cry.

Davey's wails set off his sister and soon both infant and toddler were screaming loudly. They were so loud, in fact, that John came out of his studio and made his way over to the nursery. He scooped up his son and rubbed his back, frowning in concern.

"Do you need any help?" he asked. Clara silently nodded in reply. She passed over Wynn, who was now calm, and began unbuttoning her shirt.

"I'm going to change into something less bogey-filled and pop in at the chemist's," she said. "They should have something for them."

"Poor wee things don't know what's going on," John tutted. "You sure you don't want me to get something from the garden? The frost actually makes some of the herbs—"

"No, John. Stay here; I'll be right back." Clara shot him a look, one that was gentle, yet very firm at the same time.

Not about to argue, he sat down in the rocker and began gently using the motion to keep his children calm. Davey settled in his lap, rubbing his nose in his father's shirt, while Wynn made squeaky, gurgly noises into their father's shoulder. John hummed lowly, rocking back and forth, staying put as he heard Clara leave the house and return half an hour later. She came up the stairs brandishing two spoons, the sugar pot, and a small bottle of medicine, a highly determined look on her face.

"Right, now time to see if this works," she said. Clara placed the things down on the changing table and set up her venture. She measured out a bit of sugar in one of the spoons before pouring some of the medicine in it—purple and sour-smelling. Holding it above her free hand, she went and kneeled in front of her family, looking at her kids. "Okay, who's going to go first?"

"Nuh-uh," Davey shivered, pressing closer into John. "Ucky."

"Right then; Wynn, sweetie? Open up." Clara opened her mouth and locked eyes with her daughter, trying to get the baby to mimic her. Wynn did and her mother shoved the medicine in her mouth. She trembled as the syrup touched her tongue and went down her throat.

"Buh!" she spat. Clara wiped what medicine dribbled out on Wynn's chin with a kerchief before turning towards Davey and poking the tip of his nose.

"Alright, big guy—your turn."

" _No!_ " he said defiantly. Instead of listening to him, his mother prepared a spoonful for him.

"C'mon, son; can't let your wee sister get the better of you," John murmured in the boy's ear. "If Wynn can do it, you can do it too."

" _ **No!**_ " he repeated. He pressed his lips together in a taut line, not budging.

"David, look at me," John ordered. They boy obeyed begrudgingly. "Now what does the cow say?"

"Moo!" Davey replied.

"Good; what do the ducks say?"

"Quack!"

"Yes; how about a sheep?"

"Baa!"

Just as Davey opened his mouth wide, Clara shoved the spoon in his mouth, making him accidentally take the medicine. He too almost seemed to vibrate as he tasted the stuff, wrinkling his face in disgust.

"Ucky med-sins!" he declared. The boy spat dramatically, flailing his arms. "Ucky! Ucky! UCKY!"

"Would you rather eat you father's weed-garden?" Clara deadpanned.

"Daddy garden taste _super_ -ucky! Worser than sprouts!"

"That's my boy," she grinned, ruffling her son's hair. John simply kissed Wynn on the forehead and held her a bit tighter.

"I still have you, sweetling," he whispered.

"Uh, no you don't; she's smarter than all that Victorian nonsense," Clara smirked. She kissed the tip of her husband's nose and chuckled. "Don't worry though, as I wouldn't have _you_ any other way."


	14. Budding Love or Touchy Friends?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: withlovefromskaro
> 
> Prompt: TTTWLB verse with Wynn and Orson? Curious to hear whether they hit it off and became a couple or just close?
> 
> Originally posted: 18 October 2015
> 
> Notes: 1795 words; takes place during the summer of 1961, right before Wynn's 12th birthday, between Year 7 and 8 (Orson is 11 ½ and getting ready to go to secondary school); makes me laugh because this is so far from being the full story it's actually pretty damn funny; also contains Gwen (29) and her son Mickey (1 ½); neither Wynn nor Orson realize what they're doing here or what they're mimicking, meaning they've got a huge and creepy wakeup call coming within the next few years

It was a very warm day in the dead of summer, encouraging most sane people in London to stay indoors if they could. Not Oswynne Elena Smith, however, as she walked happily down the pavement, humming to herself as she carried her school bag to a familiar flat block—brand new and pristine—and climbed the stairs up to a specific floor, and went to a specific door. She knocked, with Gwen answering.

"Ah, there you are; I was beginning to worry," she said, letting her guest in. "Everything was fine then?"

"Ran into a girl from school on the way, but I was able to get away in time." Wynn noticed Mickey toddle into sight and she picked him up, tickling his sides to make him giggle. "And how are you today?"

"Stop! Stop!" the one-year-old insisted. She put him down and he zoomed off giggling. Wynn then turned back to Gwen, seeing her roll her eyes. "Orson here yet?"

"Not yet; any minute now," she replied. "Go ahead and set up in the kitchen. There's already some tea there for you."

"Thanks!" the tween grinned. She went into the kitchen and found the table bare, only exception being the aforementioned tea, and she got straight down to business. Books, pencils, a couple pads of papers, and a packet of handwritten notes came out of the bag and spread across the table. She poured herself some tea and prepared herself by skimming the things she'd already written down a dozen times over. Soon the door to the flat opened and Orson appeared in the kitchen doorway.

"Hi Wynn; thanks for coming to help me," he said as he sat down in the chair next to her. "I really hate this summer homework they're making us do."

"That _is_ what you're supposed to have your mentor for," she gently scolded.

"I've told you: he just _doesn't like me!_ " he insisted. "Every time I try to even talk to him he goes and ignores me!"

"Well then lucky for you, I'm good enough with History to help you out, not to mention I still have the notes from when I did this essay last summer." Wynn handed over the note packet and tapped on one of the textbooks she had brought. "Now that should at least be a start. I won't do it all for you, but I will point you in the right direction."

"I don't deserve you," he exhaled happily. As Orson opened the book and began writing his own rough draft, Wynn took another book and pad and started on another assignment to keep busy. She'd stop to answer his questions now and then, and they both went through the pot of tea and biscuit plate Gwen had left out for them. A couple hours passed and the phone in the sitting room rang, which Gwen answered, only to hang it up cursing.

"Hey kids, can I trust you to watch over Mickey for me while I pop over to the store?" she asked from the foyer as she prepared to leave. "I ordered Luke a new suit last week and the clerk called saying that it needs to be picked up before they close."

"Go ahead Aunt Gwen—we'll be fine," Orson said.

"No more than an hour, you hear?" she said. Gwen poked her head in the kitchen and stared the tweens down. "And not a word of this gets out—the suit's a surprise."

"My only regret is not being in on it sooner," Wynn replied. With instructions to keep Mickey in his playpen and turn on Blue Peter if he got too fussy firmly in place, the woman left in a rush, hoping to catch a bus as soon as possible.

The minutes passed by slowly. Mickey fell asleep, using his stuffed bear as a pillow, allowing his sitters to concentrate on their work. Wynn started to become fidgety after a while, attempting to doodle her way out of boredom in the margins of the pad.

"So, you hear from your dad and gran?" she wondered.

"Last night, yeah. I guess Granddad's grave was vandalized a couple weeks ago along with a bunch of others and they're talking with the cemetery's caretaker." He leaned back in his chair and tried balancing his pencil on the bridge of his nose. "A bunch of cemeteries in and around Leeds have been hit recently, they said, so it's just a matter of finding whodid it."

"Wow, that's sad. Say… didn't you have the chance to go up there this year?"

"Yeah, but I turned it down," Orson shrugged. "I know it's my _granddad_ , but he died so long ago… Dad wasn't even in school yet."

"Granny and Granddad Smith died not too long after your granddad did, and Gran Oswald died when my mum was a little older than us, but I still have to visit their graves every once in a while."

"Yeah, but… dads tend not to last very long in my family, so it doesn't bother me. I'm just glad _my_ dad's still around, or it'd just be Gran and me, or I'd go stay with one of my aunts like I have to do now… though I don't know which one I'd want to stay with permanently, between Aunt Gwen being all over Uncle Luke and when Aunt Ruby has her boyfriend over to her flat. It's all pretty gross."

Wynn frowned at that, pensive. "I know it's gross, but do you want to be a dad one day?"

"What kind of a question is that?" he snorted.

"Well, Mr. Pink's a really good guy, and if you want to be like him—a dad who is there for his family—you can help him and Luke turn around the family trend," she explained. "Besides, it's not like your granddad could _help_ when he died. I asked Auntie Sarah Jane about that flu once and she said it pretty much caused chaos."

"That's true," he agreed. Orson then thought for a moment, concentrating intensely. "Yeah."

"Yeah what?"

"I do think I want to be a dad one day. A flat of my own, a wife and kids, enough room so I can take care of Dad when he's old because he's taken care of all the rest of us for so long… that wouldn't be bad. I bet that'd be nice."

Just then, Mickey began to cry in the sitting room, tearing the two from their conversation. As Wynn stood up to find out what was wrong, an idea came to her. She nabbed Gwen's apron on the way out and put it on as she found the upset toddler. He didn't stop, and she carried him back to the kitchen, where Orson was trying to get back to his homework.

"Honey, your son's at it again."

"Wynn, that's my cousin."

"We're playing house, now shut up," she said, holding out Mickey.

Orson took him and held the baby in one arm while he continued writing with the other. The younger boy was placated, watching curiously as Wynn went into the fridge.

"Ah, here we go," she said, pulling out a premade bottle. She took Mickey back and put him in his highchair, allowing him to tuck in and suck down the contents happily. Turning back to Orson, she made a show of looking at the papers. "Another set of essays you're marking?"

"Uh, yeah," he muttered. "Essays." He paused and then looked up at her. "But I want to be a scientist working on computers with you. Why would I be marking essays?"

"Teaching in order to secure grant money—Ruby and Luke had to do it."

"Huh… that's true," he agreed. Orson then stared at Wynn uncomfortably as she sat down in his lap, draping one arm around his shoulders. "What are you doing?"

"You wondered what it would be like to be a dad, so I'm showing you—I know that face you made when you were thinking," she said. "Mum and Dad do this all the time."

"…but I don't think…"

"Who's the one with both their parents to watch? This is how mums and dads act. Don't Gwen and Luke act like this at least sometimes?"

"Yeah, but…" Their eyes locked and suddenly both their faces grew hot. It took Orson a moment, but he remembered what his uncle would do in such situations and placed his hands on Wynn's waist. She put her other arm on his shoulder, which made them sit closer than before.

"This is weird," she admitted.

"Okay, so it's not just me."

"Don't we need to be at least dating in order to do this? We're not sixteen yet."

"We're p-playing house, r-remember?"

The two leaned in close and tried to kiss, being set back by the fact neither knew what to do with their noses. After a couple attempts they succeeded, pressing their lips together for just a moment before parting, jerking their heads back in embarrassment. Seconds ticked down on the clock and they burst into laughter.

"You're gonna be a shit kisser," Wynn snickered.

"Am not!" Orson gasped, offended. "No one's good their first try!"

"Well then, maybe you need more practice than most," she teased. She rubbed his hair and knocked their foreheads together. "At least you know now so you can work on it."

"Umm… Wynn?" he muttered.

"Yeah?"

"Please get off; you're heavy."

"Work on being romantic too, because that's not going to fly," she replied, groaning in amusement.

She slid off his lap and took Mickey's empty bottle from him, putting it in the sink before taking the toddler back to his playpen and turning on the telly. Wynn then returned to the kitchen and put Gwen's apron back on its peg, deciding that it had been enough of playing house for one day.

"Does this mean we're dating?" Orson asked as she sat down. "I don't think there's a word for friends that kiss and aren't dating."

"Maybe we're _practice dating_ , so when we are sixteen we don't make fools of ourselves," she offered. "We might not even want to _actually_ date each other."

"That's true," he replied. "I could want to date someone in my year, and the same for you."

"Once you ignore my brother, my year is full of a bunch of pudding brains," she laughed. "Maybe Davey can introduce me to a guy—that'd at least make it so he doesn't have to feel like he needs to protect me."

"Only the best for our Wynn; I'll be right beside him."

"Thanks." She kissed his cheek and went back to her own homework, not realizing what sort of path their relationship had just spiraled down.


	15. Alternate Universe, 1917

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: itsthefbiandfriends
> 
> Prompt: How about an AU on an AU? What if John meets Clara while back in Clydebank while on leave from the trenches of the war? WW1-young or old John.
> 
> Originally posted: 24 October 2015
> 
> Notes: 1030 words; went with a young John because we don't get enough of bby!Twelve in our fic diets; casual disclaimer in that I'm not sure how easy it was to get actual leave to go home during either of the World Wars unless it was an emergency (as demonstrated here); takes place in an AU of the AU where it's 1917, John is the same age as the TTTWLB timeline (26), though Clara is a couple-ish years younger than him and where Mélanie wasn't a thing; makes mention of the thousand-yard stare

John knocked back another shot of whisky as he sat alone in the pub. It was a quiet night: no fiddler, pianist, no rowdy dancing. Only the bare regulars populated the local that particular evening, and that was fine—all it meant was fewer potential people to come up and offer the uniformed man their sympathies.

"Ale please; whatever's cheapest," said someone at the bar. Female, English—what was an English girl doing in Glasgow? He tried not to turn his head as he caught a glimpse of her: tiny and brown-haired. She took her drink and a book with her to a table within his line of vision and sat down, proceeding to read.

' _Naw, she's minding her own business,_ ' he thought. John quietly took the bottle from the table and poured himself another drink. Best part about being a soldier in mourning—if there _was_ a best part—was the discounted liquor. He inspected the amber liquid in the dim pub light and pondered how lucky he was that he was the one mourning, not that everyone was mourning him.

"Is this seat taken?" John glanced up and saw the English lass standing next to him, book under her arm as she held her drink in her hand. "Sorry; I just don't think one of our boys in uniform should drink alone."

"Go ahead," he said. The young woman sat down and he held out his hand. "John Smith."

"Clara Oswald," she replied. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Same." His eyes quickly flit from her brown eyes to the book now sitting on the table— _A Princess of Mars_. His mouth twitched in a smile, curious about the title. "What's that?"

"Oh, just something I picked up in the station when I realized all my favorite books were in storage," she said. "It's been interesting so far. An old soldier from America gets sent to Mars."

"Mars?" he asked, incredulous. "Like in that French film where they go to the moon?"

"No… with something a bit closer to magic—it's rather silly. Leave it up to an American to write something like this."

"Mars… even if it is the war planet I'd rather be there than here right now," he said. John took a sip of his whisky and stared at the grain in the wooden table. "I'm sure you can piece together why."

"That's why I don't want you drinking alone; you have that stare." She gently placed a hand on the hand that held the glass. "You're searching far, staring beyond what anyone else can see. Who are you looking for?"

He paused for a moment and glanced at her, unsure how to answer. "My granny—she died earlier in the week, so I came back for the services and inheritance paperwork." Downing the rest of the whisky, he put the glass upside down on the table and exhaled heavily. "I'm not here for very long, if that's what you're asking."

"No, it's just… I want to make sure you're alright." She drank some of her ale and nodded. "I lived in London before this, and so many men come back home with all sorts of terrors it makes me want to scream."

"All of us have terrors from the war, I think," John muttered. Part of it was the alcohol, but there was something about this Clara Oswald that made him very willing to chat with her. "This war is unlike any we've seen before; carnage left by bullets and gas… it's a miracle more of us don't come back completely fucked. How about you? Are you a nurse that just got transferred up here?"

"Schoolteacher—I went where there was an opening," Clara said. "I'd probably bungle being a nurse, so I'm simply doing what I can." She looked at him and grinned. "How about you? Career soldier?"

"Career artist; I design labels for tins and boxes and things. It's not as nice a life as you'd think, but it's what I love."

"You have to do what you love, or else you go raving mad."

"Now that's the truth," he agreed. "Granny told me to do what I love, which I why I chose art. Otherwise, I'd be just another one of the lads."

"…I'm sorry, but another one of the lads?" She tilted her head in wonder. "I got in on the train yesterday; I'm not an idiot, but I don't know the area yet."

"Most of what you smell here is smoke, yeah?" John asked. Clara nodded in affirmation. "Well, there's an underlying smell—not stale ale and peanuts. It's tangy, metallic, and leaves a heavy taste on your tongue."

"What is it…?" she asked nervously.

" _Metal_ ," he replied. "It's metal mixed with sweat and oil, because while I design packaging, there has to be people to work the tins and the lines and even build ships for His Royal Highness. If I wasn't doing art, I'd be one of them, and then I wouldn't have the time or energy for what I love."

"I see…" she pondered. "Sort of like being a king amongst peasants, irritated he cannot rule after a long day at the plough?"

"No; sort of like being an average man in a sea of pudding brains, thankful he can do what he can, how he can do it, because he's different from everyone around." He chuckled at himself, realizing how ridiculous he sounded. "You know what?"

"What's that?"

"I'm really actually sort of drunk," he laughed, causing her to giggle.

"Maybe some cool night air will help sober you up," she suggested. "Show me around the neighborhood, please?"

"Now how are you sure I'm the sort of drunk you want showing you the mean streets of Clydebank?" John asked.

"Well," she said, "I agree that I shouldn't just go wandering around with every man I meet, but I do know that every man I meet is sensitive in the exact same area, and I'm at a good level when it comes to striking where it hurts most."

This surprised him more than anything. "Well then, Miss Oswald, I believe I have some scenery to show you."


	16. The First Grandchild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: "Time" 'verse, your take on how and when John and Clara meet their first grandchild. And how Clara's dad was right about how words can't describe her happiness when the big day arrives.
> 
> Originally posted: 27 October 2015
> 
> Notes: 1174 words; takes place 19 November 1972 (Clara is 53 and John is four days shy of 81); reminds me that a ton of character development/drama/relationship stuff happened between this prompt and prompt number fourteen, which I will be the first to admit is pretty creepy even with context (because kids shouldn't always imitate adults); made me tear up a lot and frown at my thesaurus for giving me technically correct answers, but not situationally correct ones

The hospital waiting area was a tense place as the small group of people waited for the news. John and Clara sat next to one another, her hands wrapped protectively around one of his, with Davey bouncing his knee on her other side. Danny was with them as well, his sisters needing to put children to bed and their mother's arthritis flaring up enough to want to stay at home. It was late into the evening, nearly early morning, and the four were not going to budge.

"This is very different from when either of our kids were born," John muttered. He had long-grown fidgety, unable to sit still from the moment they arrived. "Orson's lucky he gets to stay with Wynn through the whole thing."

"At least you were in the hospital, knowing they were coming," Danny retorted. "I just came home one day to find Audrey and Mum having tea and she was gone within ten minutes."

"Boys, no fighting," Clara sighed. She was used to them trying to one-up each other in just about everything, but this was neither the time nor the place. "Why can't you just be happy right now?"

"They're fighting because we're all nervous, Mum," Davey defended. "I still think it's utter nonsense that Granddad decided to stay home—he could finally be around for his _great-grandkid_ and it's better to sit the encore of _Dad's Army_ …"

"David, your grandfather is _old_ and he deserves some rest," Clara sniped.

"Dad's still here," he mentioned.

"That is beside the point," she said, trying to stay calm herself. She thought about her father alone in the sitting room, ready with a kettle full of water waiting to be boiled and in his pajamas so all he'd have to do is shuffle across the house to his room (the formal sitting room, which had been redone for him over the summer) for when he wanted to go to bed. "Don't be so sour; you're going to be an uncle soon."

"Yeah." He slouched further in the chair and propped his head up with his arm.

"You'll have your day, son. Don't worry," John assured. If there was anything he could empathize with despite no words being said, it was his son's feelings at that moment. Substitute younger mates for younger sister and he was sure it was spot-on.

The minutes slowly ticked by, the foursome growing increasingly agitated with each passing turn of the hour. Wynn's water had broken mid-morning, and with only food in their stomachs having come from the hospital cafeteria, they were hungry as well as tired. It was nearly midnight by the time the waiting was over and they were given the news.

"Family of Oswynne Pink?" a nurse called. She approached the group when she saw everyone's head turn and bodies tense. "Congratulations: mother and daughter are both doing fine. Would you like to see them?"

Despite their weak voices, it was apparent that they all couldn't wait. Davey helped his father stand and they followed the nurse into the maternity ward. Orson was standing at the edge of the curtain barrier that shielded his wife and daughter from the world, tears of joy in his eyes.

"Dad…" he choked, giving his older doppelganger a tight hug. Clara walked past them and pulled the curtain back to reveal Wynn, bottle-feeding her newborn with a tired smirk on her face.

"Took you long enough," the new mother snarked. "Did you have to put Granddad to bed first?"

"Oswynne Elena, you hold your tongue," Clara replied, menace undercut by the wobble in her voice. She set her husband down in the chair right next to Wynn and watched as the babe was passed to her grandfather. John held their granddaughter as she watched, keeping the bottle tipped just so, trying to figure out if he would break into sobs after two words or not.

"She's beautiful, sweetling," he croaked. So far, so good. "Just like you when I first held you…"

"Not _exactly_ , Dad," Wynn laughed. "Orson's part of her won't let that slide."

He nodded, trying to agree, but instead crashed straight through his breaking point, passing the girl back before he crumbled. Clara put a hand on his shoulder, which prompted him to put his arms around her as he attempted to compose himself. Wynn then burped her daughter and passed her on to her other grandfather, who was now waiting on the other side of the bed.

"To think: ten years ago I would catch the two of you snogging for fun in the flat and now you're parents yourselves," Danny said. His voice was quiet, throat dry. "John, let go of Clara so she can come over here—Gran's got to have a go."

"I am having a _moment_ ; use your legs," John argued between sniffling. Danny rolled his eyes and walked around the bed, slipping the baby into Clara's arms.

"Got her?"

"Yeah," she replied. The girl had already fallen asleep, resting silently as she waited to be fed again. Clara felt the intense urge to sit down, so she turned and perched on the edge of the hospital bed, breaking free of John's grasp. The feeling was overwhelming, something tugging in the back of her brain.

" _When you hold your first grandchild, then you'll understand._ "

Her own father had told her that, almost a quarter of a century ago, and now she understood. Light-tan skin, tiny button nose, dark hair that showed her eyebrows and hairline prominently—this wasn't a child she had made, but one that _her child_ had given birth to in emulation of the family's example. It was a little girl that was going to have sleepovers at Gran and Granddad's, who would sit rapt listening to their stories of days gone by, someone to love and treasure without needing to worry about the minutia that came with being the primary caregiver. Clara was already primary caregiver to a couple of Edwardian crybabies, so she still knew the feeling of being run ragged by her charges.

Now Wynn would know the joy of what it was like of when she and her brother were little, when they were everything in their parents' lives, and life would go on.

"What did you name her?" Davey asked. "I know you were keeping names a secret, but that's pretty pointless now."

"We're calling her Penny, but it's actually Penelope," Orson explained. "Penelope Victoria Pink." The father of only a couple hours had to nearly make a diving catch as his mother-in-law began to cry hysterically, moving from the bed to her husband's lap as soon as the baby was safe in his grasp.

It was a good cry, though. That was for certain. There was no such thing as sad tears the day a baby is born into a family that truly loves them; maybe surprise, maybe shock, but never anything sullen. The day Penny Pink was born was no exception, for that was the day she inherited her aunt's name.


	17. Film Night With Wynn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: If li'l Davey Smith's first movie was "Bambi," what was baby Wynn's first film?
> 
> Originally posted: 13 November 2015
> 
> Notes: 913 words; not Wynn's first-first film, but close enough to make the prompt count; contains spoilers for a 93yo pirated-to-hell-and-back movie (because as much as stealing is wrong, we really lucked out on this one) that I thought I had a copy of but apparently don't I need to rectify this; takes place early March 1951

Fussing over the light pouring from the projector, John aligned the stand so that it was just right. With both the bairns down for the night and Clara away visiting her dad, he needed something to occupy himself and he knew just the thing. Not many of his film reels from the house on Wissforn survived the bombing intact, but there was one he had that he _knew_ was fine and that Clara would never, ever sit down for. Maybe the kids in a few years' time, depending on their eventual taste in films, but not his wife—she suffered through enough of his silliness when it came to his movies.

Once he was positive he positioned the projector was good, he went into the kitchen to fix himself some tea and sandwiches. With his snack ready to go, he flicked on the feeding mechanism and sat down on the couch. On the menu for the night was _Nosferatu, A Symphony of Terror_ , and he could barely wait.

Chuckling, he watched as the movie he'd watched dozens of time already played out. It was essentially the novel _Dracula_ , but streamlined and with name changes. Some of the things were almost comical, like how positively evil some of the actually villainous characters looked despite not being treated that way, or the fact the movie tried to pass a hyena as a werewolf, but overall the movie held up fairly well. It wasn't like taking Clara to the cinema to see _I Was A Male War Bride_ , but it certainly had its perks.

As Hutter was wandering Count Orlok's castle, John reached down to grab another sandwich half, not taking his eyes off the bedsheet screen. He felt only two there and he flicked his eyesight down for only a moment to investigate. Yes, there were only two sandwich halves left even though he could only remember having eaten one, making it so there should have been three. He pondered about the disappearance of his snack for only a moment before brushing it off; he had just turned fifty-nine and it wouldn't surprise him if he merely just forgot. Besides, he didn't want to miss too much of the movie worrying about something as silly as food.

The film was on the ship that was to take the supernatural count to his new home, focusing in on the stack of coffins that had been loaded on before disembarking. They began to open and rats started to pour out while Orlok himself wreaked havoc by killing off crew members one by one. John felt something touch his leg and he screamed, jumping up onto the couch cushions. Almost immediately he heard sniffles and the sound of crying over the music and clacking of the projector, which he had not expected at all. Looking down he saw Wynn, bawling her eyes out, sitting right where his leg had been.

"Oh, what are you doing up, sweetling?" John cooed. He sat normally on the couch and scooped up his daughter, holding her against his chest. "I thought you were asleep with your brother."

"Dabey sweep. I wake," she replied. Rodents came on the screen again and she pointed at them. "Wats! Lots wats! Mista Stwax need lots twaps!"

"Mr. Strax _would_ need a lot of traps to catch all those rats," her father agreed. He watched her face as she stared at the movie. Her eyes were wide, taking it all in, but she wasn't afraid. His daughter was made of the tougher stuff, he decided, and then something hit him. "Wynn?"

"Daddy?"

"Did you take one of my sandwiches?"

"Yes!" she grinned. "Tank you! It yummy!"

"I'm glad," he said. John leaned back into the couch, daughter curled up into him as they watched the movie together. By the time it was over Wynn had fallen asleep, nestled safely in his arms, so he carried her upstairs and into the nursery. John put her down in her cot and left the door open just a crack; chances are that if she woke up screaming, either he would need to rush to her or she'd need to rush to him. Either way, worrying about door handles would be low on the mental priority list. He left his own door open as he readied himself for bed, taking his time just in case he was needed sooner rather than later.

Down to his vest and pants, John slid into his bed and turned off the lamp on the nightstand. No setting the alarm clock—the kids were now his alarm clock, as hilarious has that was likely to be once they were in school. He was nearly settled in when the door hinges creaked and he heard the shuffling sound of a panicked crawl. John opened in eyes just in time to see a stuffed teddy bear get tossed into his bed, while its owner scaled in after it.

"Sweep wif you, Daddy?" Wynn asked. She wriggled her way underneath the bedding and popped her head out, grabbing her teddy bear. "No wats here."

"That's right: there's no rats here," he echoed. John pulled his daughter in close and began to hum a lullaby, knowing both things would help ease her to sleep. As long as this didn't continue when Clara came back home, he didn't care. Maybe Wynn would be his fellow horror movie lover in the end after a few nights like this… it could happen.

Hopefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As far as horror/vampire movies go, Nosferatu is one of my all-time favorites. It's creepy, it's German Expressionism, it's a fairly decent representation of Bram Stoker's Dracula novel (trivia: Peter Capaldi was in a different Stoker adaptation that's even more batshit insane: The Lair of the White Worm, back in 1988. It's kinda gorny af and has Hugh Grant. Go figure), so really it's all-around a fun time. The movie isn't something for people who either don't like rats, as evidenced here, or just don't do well with either horror or silent movies. That's kind of a drawback.
> 
> Another thing to mention is that 1949′s I Was A Male War Bride is actually a fairly funny movie. Cary Grant as a "Frenchman" who needs to go through hoops to accompany his American Army wife home after WWII, usually relying on the hilarity that was involved with swapping gender roles in the particular time and place. It's definitely a movie that wouldn't happen now, but put into context it's pretty great. Also Cary Grant.


	18. 23 November 1963, 17:15:00

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following takes place on Clara's 44th birthday (Davey and Wynn are 15 and 14, respectively); also contains a daft Community reference so please bear with me.

“Dad, this is _depressing_ ; I want to watch telly,” Davey complained. He was standing in the sitting room, glaring at his father and grandfather, who were both glued to the television set as they ate sandwiches and had tea while watching special news reports. Wynn walked by carrying Dillon and Flynn in her arms and chuckled at the scene.

“Davey, leave ‘em alone—they’re old men and old men only care about depressing things,” she said. Her brother sourly followed her out and into the kitchen, where she put the rabbits down on the floor and allowed them to roam about. The two teens sat down at the table where tea was sitting waiting for them while their mother read the afternoon paper.

“This is not going to be good,” she mumbled as she turned a page and folded the copy over so it fit on the table easier. “The alarmists are wondering if the Americans are agitated enough to go to war now.”

“A guy _died_ , Mum, that’s it,” Davey muttered. “They still _have_ a president; it’ll just take a little bit to adjust.”

“Yes David, people die all the time, but in this case it was a highly charismatic man in a position of leadership,” she retorted. “The new man isn’t the same as Kennedy, apparently, and that could cause some friction. I don’t want this to create a ripple effect and suddenly we have WWIII on our hands, or the States bully us into conscription and suddenly _you’re_ the one marching off to war. I got away with keeping my husband at home during the last round and I’m going to keep my son at home if I can help it.”

“I thought the Americans avoided nuclear war with the Soviets,” Wynn said, scrunching her nose.

“ _Before_ —they might have to avoid it _again_ if now seems the time to strike because they’re a nation in mourning.” There was a knock at the back door, which Clara nearly seemed to ignore. “David, dear, could you please get that? It should be Strax.”

“Yes, Mum,” he replied. Davey went to the back door and cracked it open, positioning his foot so that the rabbits didn’t go bounding out. Sure enough it was Strax, holding a large canning jar in his three-fingered mittens.

“Salutations, Young Doctor,” he said, giving a slight nod. “This is for Miss Clara; my sister and her wife wish they could bid her a pleasant birthday, but they are currently investigating something, somewhere, to restore the honor and glory of the British Empire.”

“Oh, Mum knows—she talked with Miss Jenny yesterday, Davey explained. He took the canning jar and inspected the contents. Unsure of what it was, he put it down on the counter and looked at Strax, who was shivering. “Are you cold? It’s not that bad out…”

“I have been running many errands since this morning, most of them outside of the home, so I am much colder than a normal person,” Strax declared. “Now if you must excuse me, I have to return home before the new program starts.”

“…what new program?” Davey wondered.

“I am waiting for Vastra and Miss Jenny to return home for them to discuss the nasty business of the American fellow, so I’m going to watch a new program that debuts in ten minutes.”

Davey glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the wall, catching the time: 5:05. “Can I come over and watch with you? Dad and Granddad won’t stop with watching news reports on the American fellow and it’s driving me mad.”

“Then by all means, come over Young Doctor; bring Miss Oswynne as well and the both of you can take a break from the fate of our modern age.”

“Alright, see you in five,” Davey grinned before closing the door. He then swooped down and grabbed Dillon and Flynn, holding the wriggling bunnies against his chest. “Hey Mum, I’m gonna go watch a television program with Strax, and Wynn’s invited too.”

“What are you going to watch?” she asked, glancing up from the paper.

“I have no idea, but it’s not what’s on the telly here, and that’s all I care about,” he said.

“David James Smith, you need to _pay attention_ to this sort of thing if you ever want to get by in life,” Clara scolded as he son left the kitchen. He instead ignored her and went upstairs to his room, placing both rabbits in Flynn’s cage. After leaving them with food and water, he threw on a jumper and found his shoes. By the time he was back downstairs in the kitchen, Wynn was wearing a cardigan over her blouse and was downing the remainder of her tea as she stuffed her feet into her shoes.

“Mum’s sore at ya,” she said as they went out the back door. “Ditching on her birthday because of that only makes her cross.”

“Then why are you coming along?” he sniped back, climbing over the low garden fence.

“Because someone has to make sure that Strax doesn’t blame you for stuff he broke,” she shrugged. Wynn knocked on the back door before entering, poking her head in cautiously. “Strax? It’s Wynn and Davey.”

“Come on in, Miss Wynn! Young Doctor!” Strax called out from inside the house. The teens entered and slipped out of their shoes before venturing further than the kitchen door. The Trask-Flint Residence was almost always a pristine, immaculate sort of place, with fine art on the walls and fancy rugs running along the floor. The siblings went straight to the sitting room, where Strax already had the television set on while he fed the lizards sitting in the grand terrarium along the one wall.

“The indoor garden is looking well, Strax,” Wynn politely noted, looking at one of the many exotic potted plants that littered the house. “Is this a new one?”

“Vasiliki had it shipped from Egypt a couple weeks ago,” he said. With the lizards fed, he sat down on the couch next to Davey, placing him between himself and Wynn. “Hush now—it is starting.”

The three settled in and the program began. Two teachers, Irma and Bart, were following their student home from school one day. They were talking about how odd she was, how incredibly advanced she seemed when compared to her peers, and found her entering a pawn shop that seemed rather deserted.

“What is this…?” Wynn asked.

“Hush now, Miss Oswynne—the show is just beginning,” Strax commanded. They kept on watching, the teachers heading into the shop. With no one around, they went into the back room, only to find that what should have been an average-sized storehouse was actually the insides of a massive spaceship.

Not just any spaceship… but a DARSIT. Smaller inside than out, though not _quite_ big enough in the end, packing so much wondrous things into such a tiny area, it had the attention of not only the teachers, but the trio watching it as well. The remainder of the episode passed without comment, the audience rapt. When it ended, Wynn, Davey, and Strax all looked at one another in amazement.

“That was _incredible_ ,” Davey breathed. “Dad would have _loved_ that!”

“Irma and Bart were teachers _just_ like Mum and Danny! I wonder if Orson saw!” Wynn exclaimed.

“Your young mixed friend?” Strax asked. Wynn nodded in reply. “A bit younger than his father and your mother they are, but yes, that is a highly peculiar coincidence down to the subjects.” He mused for a moment, processing the program he had just seen. “Now that you mention it, the Inspector fellow sort of reminds me of the Doctor, except with a grandchild instead of regular children.”

“…but Dad _is_ old enough to be our granddad, so that doesn’t matter,” Davey said. “I think we should keep watching and see where this goes. Maybe Dad and Orson can watch too—he likes all that tech stuff like you, right Wynn?”

“Orson? Yeah, he does,” she answered. “Aw, this is going to be _great_! I wonder if Dad can find a reel of this…”

“I do hope so—I do want to rewatch it to answer some important questions,” Strax said. “For example, can that DARSIT-thing be used to bring one to one glorious battlefield after another, or is it simply for frittering about? There must be answers to this.”

“Well, Part Two’s next week, so why don’t we watch it at our house? Granddad will be back in Blackpool then,” Davey offered. They all agreed that it was going to be an important block to schedule in their diaries; they needed to find out what happened next.

They needed to keep up with Inspector Spacetime.


	19. The Real Tree Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: clarionglass
> 
> Prompt: may I request Clara and Twelve/Malcolm (or anyone, really) putting up - or wrangling, rather - a very large Christmas tree, probably because Clara has begged for one.
> 
> Originally posted: 22 December 2015
> 
> Notes: this magically turned into a TTTWLB prompt, for reasons not even I understand; takes place during December 1973, after Penny the First Grandchild has her first birthday (and John turns 82); also features Davey the Exasperated 25yo Uncle Who Still Lives at Home and Dave the Not-Swift-Moving 79yo Live-In Great-Granddad

"I would like a real tree," Clara said. John finished pulling his jumper over his head and looked at his wife in bewilderment from the other side of the room, where she was checking her makeup in the vanity mirror.

"What do you mean?" he wondered.

"I mean: I want to get a real tree this year for Christmas," she clarified. "This is the first year Penny can really _enjoy_ Christmas, so I think it would be nice to have a real tree for once."

"…but there's nothing wrong with our artificial tree," he mentioned as he crossed the room. "We only just bought it a couple years ago…"

"…and that's perfectly fine, but we haven't had a real tree the entire time we've been married. Do you have anything _against_ getting a real one now and then?"

"…no…"

"Then I think it would be nice to have a change of pace and get a real tree this year," she said. Clara gazed into her husband's eyes via the mirror as he placed his hands on her shoulders and began to massage them. "We can use the artificial tree again next year, but a real one would be so nice and nostalgic. How many things can we say are from both our childhoods?"

"You do have a point there; I'll see what I can do," John sighed. "You're watching over Penny tomorrow, yeah? I'll figure something out then."

"Thank you," Clara grinned. She stood and hugged John around his middle. "I'll let you make the final decision on which tree. Now I should get going or I'm going to be late for work." She kissed him on the lips and walked out of the room, leaving him to wonder what on earth he was going to do to get a _real tree_. He hadn't bought a freshly-chopped tree in decades, since before his Army days as a gift to his Granny if he was entirely honest, and the thought of braving the markets for one again did not make him feel all that confident. It was for Clara though—Penny was merely an excuse—so he was willing to do it.

"Dad, are you ready?" Davey asked, poking his head in his parents' bedroom. "We need to get those revisions in at the publishers' next week if we want any sort of Christmas." He saw the look on his father's face and frowned. "I don't like that look."

"What look?"

"That 'how am I going to pull off this daft thing' look you tend to get whenever Mum talks you into something. What did she talk you into?"

"Nothing drastic," he lied. "You're right though—let's get to work."

* * *

It was the following day and Davey was sitting reading in his room, laid out comfortably on his bed while his rabbit Jimmy lopped about the rug. According to the magazine, the new series of Inspector Spacetime was going to premiere later that afternoon, which meant that he probably would end up sneaking over to visit Strax if the house was crazy enough. The Third Inspector was supposed to be getting a new Associate and he didn't want to miss out.

Suddenly, he heard the telltale sputter-bang of his father's heap of scrap car outside in the drive and he put down his magazine in frustration. After putting Jimmy back in his hutch, he padded down the stairs and slipped on his shoes to go outside. His granddad was already out there, watching curiously as his dad attempted to wrestle a tree off the top of the car.

"You're doing it all wrong," Dave said, shuffling over to the vehicle. "Don't you know that you need to back the car up directly to the door?"

"I _know_ what I'm doing," John muttered. He shifted the burlap-wrapped tree and cursed, needing to push it further atop the car.

"Dad, just let me call Orson and we'll take care of it," Davey deadpanned, raising his voice so he could hear. "You're going to break something and I'll still need to take the tree off anyhow before I drive you to the hospital."

"No; it's supposed to be a surprise!" John insisted.

"For whom? _Orson_ …?"

"No, for _Penny_ ; now help your old maaaaannnn!" Just as John finished cutting the last bit of rope keeping the tree on the roof of the car, the entire thing rolled off and pinned him to the garden lawn. Davey ran over to his father in a panic, lifting the tree so that the elderly man could roll over and crawl away from the danger.

"…and how is Orson helping going to ruin this for Penny?" Davey wondered sharply. He glared at John, who stood up and brushed himself off.

"It's just going to, alright?" he scowled. "Now help me get this damned thing in the house before I just leave it here."

"Yes, Dad," Davey moaned. "Granddad, get the door, please." It took a bit of heaving and pulling and Davey getting trunk sap all over his hands, but they did eventually get it in the house and into the empty space in the sitting room. Well, they _were_ about to place it in the empty space in the living room when Dave spoke up.

"Did you get a stand for the thing while you were out?" he asked. While his son-in-law cursed, his grandson dropped his end of the tree, holding his hands up in frustration before walking back up the stairs. Christmas did not need to be this complicated.

* * *

It was Christmas Eve and everything was going pretty much as-planned for the Smith Household. Wynn and Gwen were in the kitchen, making sure Clara didn't burn the turkey, while most of the rest of the family was in the sitting room. Danny had yet to arrive with his mother and Ruby was at her husband's family's place for the holiday, but otherwise most everyone was chatting and watching Penny pet her uncle's rabbit and poke her head into the bottom branches of the tree in a fit of giggles. She rolled around on the rug until her father plucked her up and began to wipe off her face with a kerchief, frowning at all the sap all over her.

"I thought you said that you got this long enough ago so that it died up a bit," Orson said, placing his daughter on his lap. She wiggled in an attempt to flee, but his grip was too firm.

"I'm still wondering why there's a real tree when there's a perfectly good false one sitting in a box in the attic," Dave snarked. He hobbled through the sitting room with his cane and held out one end of a Christmas cracker towards Penny. Curious, the little girl yanked on it and it popped open, causing her to shriek in delight. Dave unfurled the paper crown from it and placed it on her head with a grin on his face. "You wear this nice now for Granddave, okay?"

"Yes!" she said. Penny was then able to slip off Orson's lap and crawl around the room in search for Jimmy, not being fully-acclimated to walking yet.

"That girl makes me tired just by watching her," Davey frowned. "Orson, I can't imagine running around after a thirteen-month-old often as you do."

"It's not easy," the other man laughed. It was then that Wynn came back into the sitting room and plopped down on the couch between her husband and brother, an irritated look on her face.

"Mum kick you out?" Davey asked.

"All I want is for us to have an on-time Christmas dinner for once," she groused. "We're lucky Auntie Sarah Jane did dinners while we were growing up."

"Gran made the best Christmas dinners," Mickey whined. He was over by the radio, sitting with his back against it while he read a book. "I really miss Gran."

"I know you do," John replied. Three Christmases on and it still wasn't nearly the same without his sister around. "Say, do you want to go see if your mum needs any help?"

"No," the thirteen-year-old pouted, just as his great-uncle expected. He watched as his baby cousin toddled up to him and poked him in the nose with a sticky finger and a wide grin.

"Boop!" Penny laughed. That got Mickey to chuckle, although the moment was killed when Penny began to sneeze on him. "Chu! Chu! Chuuu!" The last made her topple over and fall on her bottom, making her cry.

"Dad, I didn't do it!" Mickey claimed as he picked Penny up and brought her over to Wynn. The toddler kept on squeaking out sneezes and whimpering, causing her parents to wonder what was happening. "She just started sneezing, but I didn't do anything!"

"That's funny—I didn't think she had any allergies," Wynn mused, wiping off her daughter's face and trying to keep her from rubbing her eyes.

"Why is Penny crying?" Clara called out from the kitchen.

"She's sneezing, Mum!" Wynn replied, rolling her eyes. "I'm going to change her upstairs and see if that helps!"

"Good!"

Wynn took her wailing daughter out of the room and eventually the cries were muffled by there being a floor separating them. Everything continued on as normal until Luke went and got the door as he saw Danny and Lucie coming up the walk. He led his brother and mother-in-law to the sitting room, only for something very interesting to happen.

"Achoo!" Danny quickly sneezed into his elbow, shaking his head in surprise once he was finished. "Whoa, that's weird."

"Hey Dad," Orson said, giving Danny a hug. "Wynn actually just took Penny upstairs because she was sneezing too. I wasn't aware you had any winter allergies."

"Yeah… to that," Danny cringed, staring at the tree. He pulled a kerchief out of his pocket and apologetically held it over his nose. "I'm going to go check on Wynn and Penny…" He then backed out of the room as quick as possible, bounding up the stairs to the upper floor.

"Gran, I thought we always had an artificial tree because of the War or it was cheaper than rebuying a real one year after year," Orson said, turning towards his grandmother. Lucie simply shrugged nonchalantly.

"Your father's very allergic, just like his father. I thought I told you," she said. "Guess Penny caught that side of things, didn't she?"

Orson only groaned in reply before storming up the stairs. Sometimes it would be nice to know things _ahead of time_ in this family; heaven forbid things be any easier.


	20. First Meeting/First Family Gathering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: How about this: despite how things tended to go when he was a kid, Davey Smith finally meets the right girl and feels the time is right to introduce her to the family.
> 
> Originally posted: 14 February 2016
> 
> Notes: Part 1 is 759 words and Part 2 is 883 words, for a total of 1642; takes place in November 1973 and May 1974; Davey is 25 and his lady friend is 22; Part 1 also takes place the month before the Real Tree Fiasco (the previous prompt)

_November 1973_

* * *

It was a pain, attempting to juggle Penny and her toy owl in one arm and the draft he and his father had just completed in the other, but somehow, someway, Davey managed to make it all the way up to the publishing house office doing so. He didn’t even really need to pay attention to where he was going, to be completely honest, since he had been visiting the location since he himself was his niece’s age, though that was soon to change. The company was expanding, catering to a larger overall audience than ever before, and it was said that they’d be in a new building before two Christmases had passed. The young man didn’t concern himself with that, however, and merely wanted to get the babysitting-at-work trip over.

Mr. Turlough, his new editor, wasn’t there, as was per usual, so Davey left the draft in the custody of the secretary’s also very empty desk and a hastily scribbled note. He then maneuvered over towards his desk—well, the Doctor’s desk—and checked the mail. There was too much sitting in his inbox to simply ignore, so he sat down, secured Penny in his lap, and went to work.

He was wading through the fifth complaint (because it didn’t matter that at least eleven other people _loved_ Vicky and Timmy’s adventures in Russia to visit his Siberian relatives enough to write in), there was a gentle tap on his shoulder. Davey ignored it at first, but then the tap became an entire hand resting on him.

“Mister, I asked if you wanted some tea.”

Davey glanced up and saw a young woman about his age standing there with the tea cart, looking at him with a smirk on her face. She probably rivaled his father in paleness and his pseudo-cousins Gwen and Ruby for having her light-brown curls wound so tightly. He was about to answer when Penny crawled up to look over his shoulder, gasping in delight when she saw the cart.

“Tea! Tea!” the toddler squealed, pointing at the kettle. The lady chuckled and bent down, touching her nose with Penny’s.

“…or should I be asking the young miss about tea?”

“Some tea would be nice, thank you,” Davey blushed. Soon two cups of tea with milk and sugar were placed on the desk (his normal, Penny’s heavy on the added bits), along with a small plate of Jammie Dodgers. Penny took a biscuit and gnawed on it excitedly, drooling all over the place.

“You’re not the usual bloke who comes here,” the young woman mentioned. “Is he out sick?”

“No, um, my dad and I share a pseudonym,” Davey explained. “I’m taking over the name eventually, hence why I’m here answering fan mail and… not such… fannish… mail.”

“Though it doesn’t explain why this little one is here,” she said, motioning at Penny.

“Oh, sorry—I’m David Smith, and this is my niece, Penny.”

“Yes!” Penny replied. “Penee! Me!”

“That’s right, kiddo,” Davey grinned, patting her on the head. He then looked up at the tea-lady in fake exasperation. “She’s with me because everyone else is busy… and it’s partly my turn.”

“My name’s Nydia,” the woman nodded. She and Davey shook hands, though Penny wobbled up and clutched her uncle’s shirt with one hand and reached out towards Nydia with the other.

“Nyssa!” she declared. “Unca Davey! Miss Nyssa! Penee!”

“It looks like we’ve been corrected,” Nydia laughed. She bent down and tickled Penny, making the girl giggle. “I can be Miss Nyssa if you want.”

“Pweese!”

“Sounds like a plan, darling,” Nydia agreed. She then turned her attention over to Davey, who was turning rather red in the face. “When do you usually come in? I only work part-time, and I’d like to talk to you more about this pseudonym business. It seems interesting…”

“Do you like coffee?” he blurted out. His face went even redder as she tried to stifle a laugh. “I mean… I know of a great coffee shop nearby—American run—and is that something you would be… interested… in…?”

“Yes, please,” she replied. They settled on a time and day and the two allowed one another to get back to work. Davey let out a breath of relief as Nydia walked away, glad that nerve-wracking experience was over.

“Bye Miss Nyssa,” Penny grinned, covered in biscuit. Her uncle began to clean her up with shaky hands.

“Thanks for the help there, Penny Laney,” he whispered in her ear. “You might’ve broken Unca Davey’s dateless streak for good.”

* * *

_May 1974_

Rocking back and forth on his heels, Davey waited anxiously for the bus to arrive. He had dressed a bit smarter than he usually would have for what was essentially a family get-together combined with a few people from the neighborhood, but the reason was why he was so fidgety. Finally the bus came and Nydia got off, greeting him with a kiss.

“Don’t you look ready for a night on the town,” she teased, taking his arm as he led her towards Grynden Street. “Looks like you dug out your good jumper for the occasion.”

“It’s not every day I inherit Dad’s job,” he shrugged. “I’m just hoping you don’t think my family isn’t too odd.”

“I’m just sad I don’t have any odd family members to throw at you,” she said. They turned down Grynden at a leisurely pace. “I’m just wondering if Penny will remember me.”

“I’m sure she will, don’t worry—and if not, then maybe you don’t have to be ‘Miss Nyssa’ anymore,” he laughed. The couple kept walking until they were stopped by Strax popping out of a hedge partway down the street.

“Companion of the Young Doctor, state your name, occupation, and your reason for being here!” the squat man demanded.

“Strax, bug off! I told you about Nydia!” Davey frowned. “Go defend the Empire and Commonwealth somewhere else for a change.”

“I cannot, as Jenny has kicked me out of the house until she is done preparing the dish she is planning on bringing to your party later this evening.”

“Oh, is that the neighborhood cat you keep on telling me about? Shirna?” Nydia wondered, pointing towards the dead-end. Strax perked up at this, jogging off shouting rude things to the enemy feline.

“You’re good,” Davey stated in amazement. “When did I tell you about Strax’s ongoing war with Shirna?”

“Don’t remember, but it seemed useful in case I ever had to drag you back home.” They quickly finished the walk and went inside the Smith Residence.

“Ah, would you look at that, so you weren’t just shitting us about inviting over a girl,” Dave said, shuffling out of his room as his grandson came in the front door. He shook Nydia’s hand and gave her a smile. “This one’s named after me, so just call me Granddad, alright? Less confusion that way.”

“Will do,” she replied as he hobbled off. Davey had just finished hanging up her coat when Penny began to zoom through the house. She came to an abrupt stop by her uncle and his guest, her eyes growing wide.

“Miss Nyssa!” she squealed, stomping up to Nydia with her arms wide. The two hugged, with Davey rolling his eyes in exasperation.

“Penny, Miss Nyssa is _my guest_ , and I’d like to bring her past the foyer if you don’t mind.”

The little girl’s eyes went wide, going from one adult to the other, before exclaiming, “Aunt Nyssa?!”

“Penny, no…!”

“Mummy! Mummy! Aunt Nyssa here! Aunt Nyssa here!” Penny shouted, bouncing back on-course and disappearing into the house.

“Well, she hasn’t changed,” Nydia chuckled. They then decided to take the chance and move further on, going back into the kitchen where Clara, Wynn, Danny, and Gwen were all milling about hurriedly.

“Uh… Mum?”

“Not now, dear,” Clara said, not even looking up from her recipe book. “Loads to do before the neighbors all get here.”

“…but…”

“Go bother your father; he’s in the sitting room.”

“… _Mum_ …”

“Proper introductions when there’s time, now go.”

She then ushered the two out of the kitchen, brandishing a spatula. Giving up, Davey took Nydia into the sitting room, to simply bite the bullet and introduce her to his father.

“Hey, uh, Dad?”

“Son, I’m sorry, but we are having a very serious discussion here,” John stated. Davey saw that the conference consisted of his father, grandfather, and cousin Luke, while Orson sat to the side observing and Penny sat between them all, looking from adult to adult.

“…and what sort of serious discussion are we talking here?”

“This dastardly cradle-robber insists that the original Digifleet are the most terrifying, but I say the new serial that just wrapped up is the best to-date,” Dave said, pointing accusingly at John.

“Don’t be saying such nasty things, or my granddaughter’s going to catch some of these unsavory terms!” John fired back.

“I s-still say the Di-Digifleet that the Second Insp-p-pector faced in the cave syst-tem are more terrifying, the way they p-p-popped out of the walls,” Luke mentioned.

“Bullshit,” Dave scoffed.

“Bullshit!” Penny cheered, raising her hands in the air.

“See?! Poisoning my sweet, innocent angel already!” The two men continued to bicker, with Luke attempting to add in support for his favorites, while Penny grabbed her stuffed owl toy and crawled across the room to Orson, who picked her up and approached Davey and Nydia.

“Aunt Nyssa! Daddy, Aunt Nyssa!” Penny informed her father. She then held her owl out. “Lix needs hugs!”

“Okay then,” Nydia said. She hugged the toy and gave it back, causing the toddler to beam.

“Do you like Inspector Spacetime?” Orson asked, a smirk on his lips.

“It’s a good thing I do,” she replied. “You’re Orson, yeah?”

“Yup. Welcome to the family—you’re going to need to get used to this.”


	21. 16 April 1973

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: Granddad John reminisces to his adult children about what it was like when THEY were little, while taking care of new granddaughter Penny. Extra super bonus points if you can reference that bit about "how Granddad might still have use of his voice" from way back when Davey was a newborn.
> 
> Originally posted: 29 February 2016
> 
> Notes: 1132 words; takes place 16 April 1973, which is John and Clara's 33rd wedding anniversary (and Penny is 4 ½ months old); maybe not precisely the prompt but I hit it and the extra-super-bonus-points aha take that; I always love prompts that boil down to "men and babies", because men and babies

Bouncing his granddaughter in his arms, John hummed contently as he wandered about the house. He could barely take his eyes off her, which made the rest of his family roll their eyes, as he seemed to completely ignoring everything else around him.

"Sorry Mum—I think we need to wait until Davey has a kid for you to get any grandkid time," Wynn snarked, watching her father from the sitting room. She was cuddled into Orson's side on the couch for the evening, with her mother on her other side and brother and grandfather both occupying armchairs.

"Low blow," Davey mumbled. He slumped in his chair as his grandfather laughed.

"Now Oswynne, you know your brother's sensitive about that… shoot, what are you on now? Year and a half without a girl?"

"Two next month," the younger replied sourly.

" ** _Two_**? Crikey, you _do_ need to get shagged," Dave marveled. "So glad that kids are starting to loosen up these days—you know, Nanna Ellie and I _loved_ the sort of parties that were thrown in the days after the First World War, and after the Second it was as if no one was allowed to have fun again, _ever_."

"Dad, stop lying, you hated those parties; it was _Mum_ you loved," Clara teased. Her father went silent, sulking in his corner of the room.

"There's still my offer of introducing you to one of my classmates; one's a grad student and she seems like your kind of girl," Orson said. Davey shook his head silently and joined his grandfather's grousing.

"Though I do wish Dad would bring Penny back and fawn over her _here_ ," Wynn frowned. "Why's he got to be like that?"

"You know why," Clara said. "He didn't even think he'd get to see _you_ , let alone a _grandchild_ , for the longest time—he's getting in as much time as he can."

"That I am," John beamed, finally entering the sitting room. He perched himself on couch armrest next to his wife, staring down at his sleeping granddaughter with pride. "My kids have brought me great joy that I never thought I'd ever have, this little one especially."

"I'm going to make tea," Dave announced, wanting to get out of the room and his son-in-law's dramatics. He got up from his chair and began to shuffle out of the sitting room. John took his seat when he was out of sight, which elicited an unseen, "Get out of my chair!"

"My house!" John shouted back, not moving. That woke Penny up and she began to fuss, making her granddad place her against his chest and pat her back.

"Clara, John, what were Davey and Wynn like when they were Penny's age?" Orson wondered. "Are they much alike? I know a baby's a baby, but…"

"Wynn and Penny are very much alike, yes," John replied. "Davey was a little better, but that's likely due to the fact there was only him at this age."

"I was _still pregnant with Wynn_ , **_thank you_** ," Clara reminded him. "How women have six children in a row is beyond me." She glanced over at her daughter and gave her a stern look. "If you want more, wait a little bit."

"Don't worry, Mum—I think I've learned a thing or two from watching you and Dad." She saw how grouchy her brother still was and rolled her eyes. "Dad, share Penny."

"…but I'm Granddad!" he insisted.

"…and I'm _Great_ -Granddad!" Dave shouted from the kitchen.

John opened up his mouth for a rebuttal, but caught the look on Wynn's face instead. She motioned for him to give the baby to Davey and he nodded in understanding. He stood and knelt down in front of the sour young man, forcing him to take Penny from him.

"Do you remember the song I used to sing to you when you were small?" John asked.

"The Gaelic lullaby? Yeah… why?"

"Granddad still has use of his voice, but I think maybe it's Uncle's turn to sing; practice makes perfect, and I'm sure her cousins will appreciate it one day, whenever they happen."

Davey nodded silently and stood, walking out of the room with Penny wriggling in his arms. Everyone else could hear him walk up the stairs and soon there was the muffled sound of him singing. John took his son's chair and grinned as his wife walked over, sitting down in his lap.

"You know he's too shy to do something like that in front of the rest of us," Clara scolded.

"I know, but he could be like me and Penny won't have cousins until she has kids of her own—he can't feel poorly about that."

"No, though you're not exactly helping," she added.

"Do you speak any proper Gaelic, John?" Orson asked curiously. "Did your parents know it or…?"

"Naw; it was just a few songs my Dad and Uncle Jamie knew. Not many people grow up speaking Gaelic anymore, and those that do mostly use it to cuss out the English without them knowing."

"So like any other foreign language then," Orson chuckled. "It's a good song though; puts _me_ to sleep on occasion."

"Like father, like daughter," Wynn smirked. She then grew solemn, worry spreading across her face. "Mum, Dad, do you really think that Davey won't have kids until later? I don't want him to be upset when he takes over as the Doctor and realizes he's not even writing for his own children."

"I think it'll be different for him though, since he has Penny," John said. "I didn't even have as much as the neighbor kids—rest their souls—on account of being the neighborhood bachelor. Having a niece helps him out already; some of the best writers are so because they have some sort of emotional attachment, and the fact he has Penny in his life so early means he wants to do everything for her."

"How can you be so sure about that?" Orson asked.

"…because I know my son," John chuckled. He heard Davey softly coming down the stairs and smiled to himself. "As a parent, you often end up knowing your kid better than they know themselves, and I'm sure you two knew Penny from the very beginning." Davey then walked into the sitting room, Penny happily propped against his chest as he whispered to the girl with a look of pride on his face.

"You want a turn, Mum?" he offered, even _sounding_ much happier than he did earlier.

"No—I think it's Great-Granddad's turn," she replied. "Go finish off tea for him?"

Davey agreed and kissed his niece's forehead on the way out the door. Penny had everyone in her family wrapped around her finger, the men in particular, and it was good.


	22. Cousins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: This is quite possibly jumping way ahead in the story, but I can't resist this idea. Time 'verse: Little Penny Pink meets her new cousin. 'Cause I love Davey and will doubly love seeing him as a new dad.
> 
> Originally posted: 02 April 2016
> 
> Notes: 1035 words; takes place January 13, 1976, the day after baby is born; also contains Smith-Pink Offspring #2, Nydia [nee O'Trakken] Smith, and Wynn

Nydia Smith was sleeping, resting now that her ordeal was done and had brought her daughter into the world. Her husband, who was arguably just as tired, sat in a chair with their little girl laying in his arms while he fed her from a bottle. The hospital was in the middle of renovating its Maternity ward, which meant that they had been shoved in a private room up in the Cardio unit. It was quiet… serene… much calmer than twelve hours earlier when his arm was almost broken as Nydia held it, mid-labor and feeling ready to swear off having the planned-for second child. "Never take to heart what a woman says during childbirth," Orson had told him solemnly about a week ago at that point. "Unless it's about the pain, there's a good chance she might change her mind later."

Now Davey knew it wasn't just a jab at his sister's legendary indecisiveness and sharp tongue.

There was a soft knock at the door before it quietly opened. Penny rushed in with a bouquet of flowers in her hands, though froze in place when she realized her aunt was sleeping. She tip-toed the remainder of the way to her uncle while her mother closed the door as quietly as possible, the youngest Pink sleeping against the woman's chest.

"Hey, congratulations," Wynn beamed, trying to keep her voice down. She ruffled her brother's hair and sat down in the chair next to him, taking the flowers from her daughter and putting them on the window ledge. "Quarter English, quarter Scottish, but half Irish— _you're_ the one Great-Uncle Jamie's going to be haunting."

"It wasn't the Irish he had a problem with and you know it," he snickered. Davey then noticed how Penny was staring at her cousin and leaned down to whisper to her. "Do you want to hold Liz?"

The three-year-old's eyes lit up. "Yes please!" She waited for her uncle to stand before climbing into his chair, waiting eagerly. He knelt down and gently put Liz in Penny's arms, the big cousin remembering how to hold a baby from when her own sister was born the previous June.

"Uncle Davey, why is Aunt Nyssa sleeping so late?"

"Because Aunt Nyssa is very tired," he explained. "So, what do you think? Is Liz going to be a good girl?"

"Yes," Penny decided. She scrunched up her face, the same way her mother and grandmother did while thinking, and nodded as she confirmed her hunch. "Liz is a good girl."

"Good—I'm glad," Nydia chuckled. Penny gasped and soon as her cousin was out of her arms, she bounced off the chair and over to her aunt, climbing into the bed.

"Aunt Nyssa, you feel better now?" the little girl asked, curling into her side.

"I feel _much_ better, thank you," Nydia smiled. "Liz and I should be able to leave the hospital very soon." She glanced over at Wynn and saw her younger niece sleeping peacefully. "How long until I get that sort of quiet?"

"If you're lucky? Four months. If not, anywhere from six to eight," Wynn replied with a chuckle. "Get used to little sleep and power-naps while you can."

"Oi, you had Dad to babysit—don't give us any crap," Davey protested. He bounced Liz, who was now sleeping, and paced around the room, fussing over her. "I'm surprised Dad's not over here now, to be honest. He held Liz before Mum did last night; he's going to be at the flat so often we'll have to set up a bed for him."

"That's 'cause Granddad loves us!" Penny declared. "Granddad took care of me as a baby, and he takes care of Rita, and now he can take care of Liz!"

"…and Granddad wouldn't have it any other way," Nydia added. It was then that Rita woke up, looking around the room frantically to scope out the strange environment she found herself in. Seeing her aunt, uncle, mother, and sister, she deemed it wasn't enough of an emergency to start crying, and instead stared at her uncle. She pointed, babbling curiously.

"Oh yes—now you girls have to behave," Wynn laughed. She stood up and brought Rita over to Davey, allowing her to examine her baby cousin. "This is Liz; she's going to be at Uncle Davey and Aunt Nyssa's now."

Rita made a noise and she reached for Liz. Wynn guided her hand so that she gently patted her instead of an accidental smacking. "You have to be careful, just like with Dilly."

"Mum, Dilly's our bun and Liz is a baby!" Penny giggled.

"Yes Dilly is our bunny, but you have to be careful with her, yeah?"

"Yeah…"

"You have to be careful with babies _and_ buns," Wynn said. She then turned her attention to her younger daughter, who was grabbing at her cousin's hand. "Gentle now." Rita sputtered in reply and stroked the blanket wrapped around Liz. The newborn opened her eyes and the two babies stared at one another, unsure what to make of one another.

"This is Rita, your cousin, and Auntie Wynn," Davey explained to his daughter. Liz farted in protest, causing her father to snort in laughter. "Mum and Gran are going to make sure you don't do that for long."

"Liz make a stinky!" Penny half-grimaced. She tried to mask her amusement, but it was impossible to contain. "Stinky Liz! Stinky Liz!"

"Penelope, behave," Wynn gently scolded. Her brother, instead of upholding her admonishment, brought Liz over to the bed and shoved the baby in the preschooler's face.

"Stinky baby!" Davey cackled. Penny shrieked and tried to hide behind Nydia, burrowing between her aunt and the pillow propping her up. Wynn smacked the back of Davey's head and scowled, not having any of it.

"One of these days you are going to be in charge of all three girls and you'll be sorry," she warned. "Uncle Davey is _asking_ for trouble."

"Not my David, _never_ ," Nydia chuckled. She brought down her husband's face and pecked him on the lips. After seeing him as an uncle, she had no problems seeing him as a dad, and it made things all the better.


	23. 20 March 1955

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: Father/son and/or mother/daughter bonding in whichever AU "Twelve and Clara have little kids" 'verse you please. In honor of Mother's Day passed and Father's Day coming up.
> 
> Originally posted on: 26 May 2016
> 
> Notes: 706 words; I ended up writing ALL THE FILLS so this isn't even it and I'm happy; Davey is six and Wynn is five during the following fill

"Alright Wynn, stir the batter slowly," John instructed. "Scrape the sides of the bowl too. That's it." His daughter did so, sticking out her tongue as she made sure to not spill. Davey sat at the table still half-asleep, Randall the Owl in-arms, yawning pathetically while allowing his sister to do all she wished.

"This is gonna be a good breakfast, isn't it, Daddy?" Wynn beamed.

"Yes, it is," John assured. He then glanced over at Davey and tried not to laugh. "Come on now, son—get the tea tray ready."

"Mmmkay," Davey mumbled. Sliding off the chair, he plopped to the floor and went over to the cupboard and fetched the tea tray, which he went and laid down so that he could place things on it. He found a plate, utensils, a mug for tea, and a small vase, placing them all on the tray before slipping out into the backyard.

John watched his son wander off and shook his head. The boy would have to learn how to cope with the morning one day, but that would unfortunately not be today. He picked the tea tray off the floor and placed it on the table, just in time for Wynn to finish with the batter.

"All done, Daddy!" she said. "Now we get to fry it!"

"That's right," he said. He then watched as she hopped off her chair to head towards the refrigerator, fetching the butter for him. Once the butter was melted and the first glob of batter in the pan, John put the kettle on before flipping the pancake while Wynn bounced off to the side.

"Can I get the teapot ready?" she asked.

"Only if you're careful and use the little pot for your tea parties," he replied.

By the time the kettle boiled, a small stack of pancakes sat on the tea tray's plate, as well the tiny teapot that Wynn mostly put juices and water in while she played with her stuffed animals. Davey then came back into the kitchen, clutching a small handful of flowers.

"These were the only things that were open," he claimed. John grimaced as he saw the blooms—they were from his good rosemary bush—and allowed his son to place them in the vase. Davey quickly fetched jam and treacle and placed those on the tray as well, mentally going over the list with his foggy mind. "Do I have everything, Dad?"

"It looks like it; lead the way, kids." John then picked up the tray and followed his children as they climbed the stairs up to their parents' room. Clara was still asleep, though she stirred soon as Davey and Wynn drew open the drapes and let the early morning light filter into the room.

"Hmm? What's this?" she wondered with a knowing chuckle. She sat up in bed and watched as John carefully set the tray down on her lap. "Breakfast in bed? Why, what's the occasion?"

"Happy Mothering Day!" the kids cheered as they hopped up onto the bed. Clara shifted so that she could sit with one child on either side, though Davey snuggled himself underneath the blankets in an attempt to go back to sleep.

"Now is it ' _Mothering Day_ ' or ' _Mother's Day_ '?" Clara asked.

"Uh… both!" Wynn replied. She then saw her brother and frowned. "Come on, Davey! Stay awake!"

"No," the boy said simply. He curled up into their mother's side while she glanced over the tray.

"Mmm, pancakes and tea—this looks like a good breakfast. Did you kids help?"

"Yup!" Wynn said. "I helped with the batter and got the tea ready, and Davey picked the flowers!"

"Davey invaded Daddy's herb garden is more like it," Clara laughed. She kissed both her kids and waited for her husband to lean down into range to peck him on the lips. "Did they behave while helping?"

"Enough," he said. "Pity that every day isn't Mother's Day, or we could do this more often."

The only response John got was Davey groaning loudly and pulling the blankets over his head, completely hiding him and Randall from the outside world. He didn't care if it _was_ a special day; to the lad, morning should have been _illegal_.


	24. Lix the Owl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: ...more Uncle Davey with one or both of his nieces, spoiling them rotten like his father before him
> 
> Originally posted: 11 June 2016
> 
> Notes: 1719 words; only has Penny, not Rita, because it's partially an origin story for one of Penny's favorite things(!); takes place late Summer 1973, so Penny is about eight or nine months old

Ever since Penny figured out how to crawl, it was like clockwork. One, or both, of her parents would drop her off at quarter to seven in the morning, handing her off to Gran with many words of thanks. By seven she was sitting in Granddad’s lap at the kitchen table, happily being spoon-fed applesauce as the man fawned over her, lavishing the girl in affection. By quarter _after_ seven, however, the intrepid explorer was able to wiggle out of Granddad’s grasp undetected, as by that time Granddave had entered the kitchen and the two men started to bicker, allowing Penny to wander around the house unfettered.

Scaling the staircase was always a tasking ordeal, but once she was up the carpeted monolith, she scooted over to Uncle Davey’s room. The door was always left open a crack, from when Gran attempted to wake him up before what should have been a legal time, meaning she could head-butt her way through. Jimmy the Bun-Bun was still sleeping in his cage, so she scaled the blankets and burrowed her way under the blankets and her uncle’s arm. He’d be awake enough to realize she was there, relaxing his grip on Randall so that his niece could snuggle the stuffed owl as well. They would stay like that for at least an hour, when Gran came barging in, spiriting both baby and stuffed animal away, leaving her son a smack on the back of the head, as he had to wake up.

One particular day, however, as Uncle Davey shuffled into the kitchen in only his trouser and vest, a phone call interrupted Gran’s normal routine, causing her to shove Penny in Granddave’s arms while she rushed to answer it.

“Aww, look here,” Granddave cooed, tickling Penny to make her giggle. “Uncle Davey has finally decided to join the world of the living.”

“Very funny, Granddad,” Uncle Davey muttered. With his eyes open barely a crack, he navigated the kitchen to fix himself up some toast and marmalade, along with snatching the very last of the tea from the morning pot. It was nearly cold, but it was strong, and that’s what he needed most of all. He sat down at the table, munching his toast while being stared at by his niece. “And what do you think you’re looking at, Penny Laney?”

“Her ridiculously sleepy, tousle-haired uncle,” Granddave teased. Penny babbled importantly, flailing around both her arms and Randall, the toy threatening to fly out of her hands and across the room. “Yes, my little darling—Uncle Davey is a very silly man.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Uncle Davey frowned. He went to take a sip of his tea, but nearly choked on it when Gran hung up the phone and screamed at the top of her lungs.

“JOHN SMITH, WHAT ON _EARTH_ DID YOU DO THIS TIME?!” she shouted. Penny trembled at the sound of Gran sounding so very cross, while Granddave passed Uncle Davey a napkin to cough into. Granddad was upstairs, so his voice was fainter than Gran’s.

“I didn’t do a thing!”

“Yes you did! What did you put in that blasted book of yours?!”

“I told you! Vicky and Timmy visit his Siberian cousin! They have to get special visas and everything; it’s harmless!”

“Finish getting dressed and get down here this instant!” Gran then stormed into the kitchen, pacing to calm herself down.

“What’s the matter, Mum?” Uncle Davey wondered.

“ _Nothing_ ,” she hissed. “It’s just that your father’s latest book has caught the attention of a couple MPs or something like that, and now I have to bring him down to be questioned about his loyalty to the Crown. I thought we got over this sort of thing before you went to university.”

“I don’t have to come, do I?”

“No—I guess the story credits are what bothers them, so you’re in the clear.” It was then that Granddad came downstairs, dressed in a nice shirt and jacket, with his hair a big fluff of grey. “Get your shoes on—we’re going to Scotland Yard.”

“Why are we—?”

“..because they say so! Now hurry up or they’re going to come to us!” Gran shooed him out of the room and turned to Uncle Davey. “Can you watch over Penny today? I don’t know how long this’ll take.”

“As long as Granddad can handle her while I finish getting dressed, sure,” he nodded. Within a few moments, his parents were out the door, sniping at one another about the reported harmlessness of the book’s contents, making Uncle Davey shake his head. “I knew that storyline was risky when Dad and Mr. Turlough decided to go with it. At least it’s only a domestic crisis.”

“…for now,” Granddave exhaled. There was certainly no lack of excitement around this house… that was for certain.

* * *

With Penny securely in his arms, Davey walked down the street towards the park where he used to play all the time with Wynn. He sat down once he reached the shade of a tree, one that he remembered as being much tinier, and let Penny roll around in the grass. She would take Randall and toss him a few feet away, crawling hurriedly to fetch him afterwards so she could toss him again in a shriek of giggles. The play set had older kids on holiday from school running around and climbing on it, making the uncle feel a certain pang of nostalgia wash over him. He took his sketchbook out of his bag and began to draw his surroundings.

Eventually Penny wore herself out and crawled back over to him, going into his bag and pulling out her blanket. She wrapped up herself and Randall in it, resting comfortably against her uncle’s leg. He stroked her hair affectionately, almost glad his father was a daft old man who occasionally needed scolding. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have had the chance to babysit like this, and getting some time with his niece felt like it was incredibly important. He began to sketch her napping with his old toy, using his free leg as the easel.

Davey thought idly while he sketched, coming up with an idea as he went along. Off to the side, he did rough lines of an owl character, trying his best to anthropomorphize it without going too cartoony. Another owl sketch ended up below that one, and suddenly it came to him.

“Come on Penny; time to wake up,” he said, nudging her gently. The baby made defiant noises, not wanting to hear a word of it. “If you don’t hurry, we might miss the surprise.”

Now _that_ got her moving. Surprises? Penny _loved_ surprises. She sat patiently while her uncle put away his sketchbook and her blanket, hugging Randall tight before being lifted up into the air. Davey chuckled to himself as Penny snuggled against his shoulders, still a bit sleepy, as he walked along, bringing her to a place he had previously been banned from while minding her:

 _The toy store_.

* * *

Oswynne Elena Smith Pink hated everything.

Okay, so she didn’t hate _everything_. She loved her family, her husband, her daughter, computers… it was simply the fact that when at work, it was like pulling teeth to get anything done. There were a few colleagues, men and women both, whom were alright to work with, yet her required teaching assignment for the summer was filled with a bunch of right pricks that wouldn’t listen to a word she said, not to mention the fact that a decent portion of the department’s faculty simply laughed her off. She thought about what her Aunt Sarah Jane would have done, hoping her late relative would haunt the bastards with vengeance and malice for suggesting she fetch them tea, and simply held her head high, saving the ranting for when she returned home for the night. If she was completely honest, she might not make it past her parents’ doorstep.

After letting Orson drive, being that it was a particularly stressful day for Wynn, the Pinks made it to Grynden Street without so much as a road rage incident. They went inside the house, being greeted by her grandfather.

“Hey; how was she today?” Wynn wondered. It was difficult to not let exasperation creep through her voice, making Dave cock an eyebrow.

“Anything wrong?”

“Let’s leave it at Aunt Sarah Jane’s fury is alive and well in her niece,” Orson said. He glanced around, vaguely suspicious. “It’s quiet today—where is everyone?”

“Davey has the nip today, since Clara and John went out last-minute,” Dave explained. “They’re upstairs feeding Jimmy, if you need to get home right away.”

“I think we can stay, but I’ll go check on them,” Wynn said. She went up the stairs and knocked on the door to her brother’s room. Opening it up, she saw that Jimmy was out of his hutch alright, but was sitting to the side, nibbling on some timothy-grass and watching Davey and Penny play with a pair of stuffed owls. One was Randall, but the other was brand-new and she had never seen before.

“Ma!” Penny squealed happily. She crawled over to her mother and held up the stuffed owl. “Icks!”

“David, where did my daughter find this?” Wynn asked, picking Penny up. Davey stood and grinned, unable to contain himself.

“That’s Alexis, and we found her at the store,” he said. “She loves having Randall so much that I thought she’d like an attack-owl of her own.” Penny made growling noises and waved her new toy around, making her uncle laugh. “She can’t say ‘Alexis’ very well, so we’ve settled on ‘Lix’ for the time being.”

“Licks? As in eating ice cream?”

“No: L-I-X; I’m thinking she might end up becoming a new storybook character alongside Randall.” He poked Penny on the nose, which made her stick her tongue out at him, and laughed. “This brilliant little one was just helping me with some story ideas—can’t rely on Dad once he retires, now can I?”

“No, I guess not,” Wynn chuckled. She rolled her eyes and gave her daughter a kiss before handing her back to her brother. “Just watch it, okay? You’re going to spoil her rotten.”

“Our Penelope? Nothing rotten about her.”


	25. Grandkid no.4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: Bring on little Smith cousin #4 in the TTWLB-verse, since 1) I'm guessing John and Clara deserve at least one grandson and 2) it looks like all Smith siblings tend to come in pairs across all generations.
> 
> Originally posted: 05 September 2016
> 
> Notes: 1609 words; John and Clara deserve all the grandkids period; takes place October 14, 1979; all the Smith grandchildren have been planned and named for a long time already, it was just a matter of getting the prompts in place (though frick—I forgot why I named half of them what I did); standard reminder that rabbits are generally not good pets for a child as young as Liz (almost four; recommended is around eight and older), but she's literally been helping Davey with their bun her entire life so she knows what to do

“Gran, if Mummy has her baby, will I still have to go to school tomorrow?” Liz wondered aloud. She was sitting at the kitchen table in her grandparents’ house, frowning into her breakfast cereal. It was confusing work, not being the youngest in the family anymore, and she wanted to make sure she knew what was going on before it really happened for good.

“Yes, you do, but we can go see them afterwards,” Gran replied. She set down two plates, one in front of Granddave and one at her own chair, before sitting in her chair. Granddad came in with his own breakfast and sat next to Gran. “Then again, you could go visit your mum as early as tonight—it all depends on what happens today.”

“Oh, okay,” Liz nodded. She went back to poking her cereal, though Granddave reached over and patted her on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry—your dad will call to tell us when we can come down,” he assured her.

“Why can’t we go down to the hospital _now_ though?” she asked. “I thought lots of peoples waited at the hospital for babies to be born.”

“That’s true, but it’s very boring at the hospital otherwise, and we’d rather have you here where you can still play if you want to,” Gran replied.

“…and I’m not babysitting Granddave down at the hospital unless I have to,” Granddad added. He and Granddave then started to argue, something they did by making angry faces and moving their lips, though no words came out. Gran had said one time that she “stole their arguing voices” long ago, though Penny was a good cousin and had explained to Liz and Rita that they were told they had to eat soap if they said rude things, which meant that they mouthed them instead.

“Don’t worry, sweetie—Aunt Wynn is coming by later with your cousins. I’m sure that playing with them will make you feel better,” Gran said.

“I guess,” Liz said. She finished her cereal and put her bowl in the dishwasher and went back up the stairs to her room. Well, actually, it used to be Daddy’s room when he was her age, but now she used it whenever she came to visit. The girl carefully placed stacks of books in the doorway before reaching into the rabbit hutch and pulling out Jimmy. She placed him on the floor and let him hop about as she got his food—some grass that she brought from home—and made it all fit in his little feeding bowl. Liz had been helping Daddy feed Jimmy for as long as she could remember, and when he dropped her off at Gran and Granddad’s, he said that it was _her turn_ to take care of their rabbit. He was old and didn’t bite, so he was a good rabbit to practice with, and Liz took the job seriously. She put Jimmy’s bowl down on the floor and pet him cautiously, not wanting to spook him as he ate.

After watching Jimmy eat and roam around the room for a bit, Liz heard feet bounding up the stairs, which could have only meant her cousins were there. Penny and Rita were usually pretty fun to have around, but for some reason, Liz wasn’t very happy to see them as they popped into the room.

“Is your baby sister here yet?!” Rita shouted excitedly.

“No, and I don’t know what kind of baby Mummy’s having,” Liz frowned. She picked up Jimmy and put him back in his hutch before beginning to pick up his mess. “All I know is I have to share my room now.”

“I thought Uncle Davey and Aunt Nyssa were going to make the studio the nursery and move the art stuff into the den,” Penny mused. Being the eldest (and one month away from turning seven), she was privy to all the adult conversations, and this did not fit into the plans she overheard.

“You haven’t been over lately, but Daddy’s keeping his studio and I share with the baby,” Liz scowled. “Mummy says that we’ll have a different flat by the time the baby can be in their own room, but I don’t know…”

“Girls! Come downstairs!” Gran called out. The cousins looked at one another and shrugged before hopping over the anti-bunny-barricade and rushing down the stairs. Gran was standing with the phone to her chest, a large smile on her face. “Liz, it’s your dad.” She held out the receiver and urged her youngest granddaughter to take it. She did, lifting the earpiece-end to her ear while her cousins tried to listen in.

“Daddy…?”

“ _Hey there, Cuppa_ ,” Daddy replied. “ _Mummy had her baby a little while ago; would you like to come down and meet him?_ ”

“Him? I have a brother?”

“ _Yeah, you do_.” There was a pause before Daddy spoke again. “ _Aunt Wynn and Uncle Orson should be helping Gran get Granddad and Granddave ready, and then you’re all going to come down to the hospital_.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

“ _Hey, cheer up, Cuppa—you’re gonna be a great big sister_ ,” he said. “ _Now hang up the phone, yeah?_ ”

“Okay, bye.” She put the receiver back on the base and stared up at Gran. “I have a brother.”

“That’s wonderful news, sweetie,” Gran beamed. “Get your shoes on and head on out to the car—we’ll be there in a moment.”

“Um… Mum…?” Aunt Wynn said nervously. “I actually was wondering if we could talk first.”

“Does it have to be now? Your nephew was born earlier this morning.”

“Well, part of it happened two months ago, but another part is going to happen seven months from now, and I think it’s going to involve how much I give you in the summer to watch over the kids…”

“ _Another one?!_ ” Gran gasped. Her eyes did the inflatey-thing, confusing her granddaughters. She wasn’t sad, but more shocked and… something else. Adult emotions were sometimes hard. “Alright, I’m putting the kettle on, and we’re going to talk about this.”

“Sure thing, Mum.” The two women then vanished into the kitchen, leaving the girls to finish putting their shoes on.

“I wonder what that was about,” Penny mused. Liz shrugged; she was as clueless as her cousin on this one.

There was little time to theorize, however, as soon Granddad was ushering all three of his granddaughters into his ancient, smelly car and allowing Uncle Orson to drive off towards the hospital. Mum and Aunt Wynn were too busy with tea to come along, and Granddave didn’t want to “catch anything in that disease hotbed”, so it was just Granddad and Uncle Orson bringing the cousins to the hospital. Liz held Granddad’s hand tightly as they walked into the building and found the floor Mummy was on, not remembering having ever been there before. He instead picked her up and carried her, holding his youngest granddaughter close.

“Do you know something, sweetling?” he asked.

“What?”

“You’ve heard of Auntie Sarah Jane, yeah?” She nodded. “She was _my_ big sister, and I always looked up to her; she was my hero.”

“Really…?” Liz wondered. “Daddy says that Auntie Sarah Jane was a lady that didn’t take no for an answer and didn’t let anyone stop her.”

“That’s true, and that’s part of why I admired her,” he said. The group then arrived at Maternity and found Mummy’s room, where she was feeding Liz’s new brother from a bottle while Daddy read a bit of the new book he picked up on Friday. Daddy grinned widely when he saw the family, taking Liz from Granddad’s arms.

“Hi Cuppa,” he chuckled, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “I thought you were going to make sure everyone was coming.”

“Wynn’s talking with your mum and Granddave’s being himself,” Uncle Orson explained. He then leaned in, attempting to be discreet. “Number three’s coming.” Daddy’s eyes went wide like Mummy’s and he passed Liz back to Granddad.

“You two are bonkers,” he said. Uncle Orson shrugged and turned to Mummy, giving her an awkward set of thumbs up. “Another successful little one for Granddad to spoil rotten?”

“He is,” Aunt Nyssa laughed. “Treasach, for my dad, but we’re calling him Teddy for as long as that’s a mouthful for him.”

“Then how about if we sit down and meet Teddy?” Granddad asked Liz. She nodded cautiously and he sat down, waiting to be passed his grandson. Daddy took Teddy from Mummy and placed him in Granddad’s free arm, which nearly made him start to cry. “Isn’t he great, sweetling?”

“Teddy’s a baby, Granddad,” Liz said. She took the handkerchief from his shirt pocket and dabbed at his eyes before putting it back. “He’s just laying there.”

“Why are you crying, Granddad?” Rita asked. “Is Teddy already being bad?”

“No—I cried when I first held all of you,” Granddad assured. “It’s one of my happy cries, sweetling.”

“Oh, okay,” she nodded. She looked at her baby cousin and tilted her head in thought. “Uncle Davey? Aunt Nyssa? What’s Teddy’s trouble-name?”

“Treasach Idris Smith,” Mummy replied. That was when Granddad began to cry in earnest, which caused Daddy to rescue Teddy and Uncle Orson to get Liz before she slid down to the floor.

“Told you he’d react this way,” Daddy told Mummy as he handed back Teddy. “Granny Smith’s got to be rolling in her grave.”

“Granny Smith and my Uncle Idris,” Mummy reminded him. That seemed okay though, as she then had Uncle Orson help Rita and Penny onto the bed so that they could meet their new cousin properly as well.


	26. Treasach and Oswald's First Day of School

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: I can quite easily picture ol' Granddad John telling his [...} grandkids either stories about "back in the old days" or embarrassing the heck out of Davey and Wynn with "you know, when your mum and dad were YOUR age..."
> 
> Originally posted: 10 September 2016
> 
> Notes: 1354 words; takes place September 3, 1984; features the return appearance of Miss Waterfield, Davey and Wynn's Year One teacher

The thing about being cousins so close in age, Teddy and Ozzie found, was that they did _everything_ together, even if they technically did it alone. Whatever Teddy was doing, Ozzie was not far behind, either in his ability or his physically running to catch up. It didn't matter that they looked very little alike—they were one another's best defense from nutso older sisters and Ozzie's clingy little sister. She was _so clingy_ that she couldn't even wait a whole year before being born and was always toddling around after them. She was why, although both boys had their doubts to whether or not school would be fun, they were both still walking down the street with Granddad, placidly going to school for the first time.

"Are you two excited?" Granddad asked while they waited at a crosswalk. Gran was going to come along, but Granddave was sick again, meaning it was only Granddad as they walked towards the school. Penny was going to a different school this year, and Rita and Liz were old enough to walk to school on their own, meaning it was just the two boys that morning.

"Kinda," Ozzie admitted. "It's where Bill can't go yet, so she can't follow us."

"Now that's not a nice way to treat your sister—you have to take care of your sisters, because they take care of you," Granddad said. The light turned and he gently pulled his grandsons along.

"How do you know?" Teddy wondered. "Liz and Rita ignore us, and Penny's too busy with secondary school now."

"I had a sister, about the same age difference between Penny and Ozzie to be honest, and she was the best, even when she wasn't around."

"I thought Great-Auntie Sarah Jane didn't know you were alive for almost twenty years," Ozzie said.

"Now who ever told you a thing like that?!"

"Auntie Gwen," the boy replied simply. He paused for a moment before looking up at his grandfather, old and bent, and tilted his head. "Granddad?"

"Yes?"

"What did you and Great-Auntie Sarah Jane do when you were little?" he asked. "Did you eat crisps while watching Inspector Spacetime?"

"Yeah!" Teddy gasped. "Did she read you bedtime stories and make sure there were no robots in the cupboard before you went to bed?"

"Did you have cousins like me and Teddy?!"

"Hold on, hold on," Granddad chuckled. He stopped walking and checked his wristwatch. "Questions later—school's right there."

"I don't want to go to school very much anymore," Ozzie frowned.

"You'll be fine once you're there," Granddad assured him. He led them up to the teacher standing by the doorway, who greeted them with a smile. "Two down, one to go, Miss Waterfield."

"…and then I can finally retire," the teacher laughed. She bent at the waist to come down closer to the boys and chuckled. "Let me guess: _you_ are Treasach Smith and _you_ are Oswald Pink." The boys' eyes went wide, for she had them pegged without ever meeting them even _once_ … now that was scary. "What do you want me to call you?"

"Teddy and Ozzie," Granddad said once he realized the boys were frozen in fear. "I'll pick them up after class."

"Thank you; give my regards to Mrs. Smith," the teacher replied. At that, Granddad walked away, leaving the two little cousins in the care of the strange lady who knew them without knowing them. Things were gonna be scary.

* * *

As class started, Teddy and Ozzie stuck together better than paste on, well, anything. They picked their seats so they sat next to each other, and ate together at lunch, and ran about on the playground together as well. Eventually, Miss Waterfield made the class sit down on a rug in the corner of the room and took a book off the shelf for storytime. The cousins tried to lay down towards the back of the rug instead, but she made sure they sat up instead.

"Alright kids, it's time to read a book before we go home for the day," she said. "Now tell me: can anyone here read yet? It's okay if you can or cannot." Ozzie and Teddy both raised their hands, and they were the only ones who did. "Do either of you want to read the book with me?"

"No thank you, Miss," Teddy muttered. Ozzie shook his head as well—not gonna do it.

"Okay then; time for one of my favorites… ' _A Visit at the Seaside_ '."

"Hey, that's one of Daddy's books," Teddy whispered to his cousin. "It says 'the Doctor' on the front."

"I don't think it is," Ozzie frowned. He put his hand up, which paused Miss Waterfield before she said a word.

"Yes?"

"When is the copyright?"

The entire rest of the class turned around to stare at Ozzie, because that was the biggest word they had heard all day. He shrank back, embarrassed, though the teacher helped him.

"That is a good question: class, the _copyright date_ of a book is the year it was first sold," she said, knowing she was glossing over plenty of details. "It means that the book needs permission from the author, or the author's family, to be printed. Some books are so old that they have an _original_ copyright, but that when you buy a copy, none of the money goes to the author's family because they died long ago."

"Then what is the copyblight?" a student asked.

"Copy _right_ , and it says," Miss Waterfield glanced on the front page, "1947. How old does that make this book?"

" _Ancient_ ," a kid replied. Most of the class giggled, though the teacher held her own.

"Thirty-seven, meaning it's as old, or even older, than some of your parents."

"If it's so old, Miss, then why do you read it?"

"Because some things are fun even when they are very old; now, _'Here is Sarah and John, getting ready for a day at the seaside…'_ "

"It's older than Uncle Davey," Ozzie whispered. "That means Granddad made it.

"Do you think Sarah and John are him and his sister?" Teddy mused. He could see the large illustration from there, with the older sister helping her brother prepare for their trip. "It doesn't look like them…"

"Hush," Miss Waterfield said. She continued on with the story, detailing how big of a help Sarah was to John, and how when Sarah was met with a spider, the bug she disliked the most, John was nice and threw it out the bus window for her. The book was only halfway done when the bell rang to let the kids go, and so the teacher said she would continue it tomorrow.

Very quickly, Teddy and Ozzie went to get their backpacks and ran outside to meet Granddad. He was standing by the schoolyard gate, playing with the lock that was dangling from a chain.

"Ah, there's my boys," he grinned when he saw them. "Rita and Liz find you yet?"

"At lunch, but they didn't want to talk," Teddy explained. He and Ozzie each took a hand from Granddad and they began walking back towards Grynden Road. "Uh, Granddad?"

"Yes?"

"Did you and Great-Auntie Sarah Jane like to go to the seaside as kids?"

Granddad blinked at that, slightly confused. "Now where did that idea come up?"

"Miss Waterfield was reading one of your books, and we know it was one of yours because the copyright was before Uncle Davey was born!" Ozzie explained. "It was about Sarah and John! That's the two of you, yeah?"

"It was, yes," he chuckled. "That was how we had fun when we were small—going to the seaside. There was no Inspector Spacetime back then."

"What did you watch at teatime on the telly though?" Teddy wondered.

"There was no telly—only the wireless, and even that wasn't always there," Granddad said. His grandsons marveled at him, not sure what to say. "How about we get home to Gran, Billie, and Granddave, and I can tell you about it over tea?"

Yes, they knew they would like that very much.


	27. Family Portrait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: Maybe the unexplored exploits of really young Davey and Wynn Smith?
> 
> Originally posted: 18 October 2016
> 
> Notes: 1289 words; the story behind chapter sixty-six’s plot device; takes place in January 1950; I had to use the one actress’s name for the character BECAUSE SHE DOESN’T HAVE ONE IN CANON and I’ll let you guess who that is; 100% pointless slice-of-life fluff

His beaten car puttering along, John pulled into the tiny carpark by the equally-tiny building with confidence. Sure, most of the rest of the area was rubble, but it didn’t faze him. His wife, however…

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Clara wondered. With her husband in a good suit while she was in her best dress, to her it seemed rather out of place that _this_ , of all places, was their destination.

“Of course it is—looked into the place myself,” he replied. Looking into the back of the car, he watched as Davey rolled around on the bench seat in a fit of giggles, simply entertained with the fact he was outside of the house in his footed pajamas. “Alright son, we’re here!”

“Here! Here!” Davey echoed. He excitedly poked the basket on the floorboards that held his sister. “Eee! Here!”

“Come on kids; let’s go!” John said. He and Clara got out of the car, fetching Davey and Wynn from the backseat, and went into the building. As much as Clara had doubted, she was pleasantly surprised to find that it was indeed a portrait studio; the front area was very clean and proper, with a young woman sitting behind the receptionist desk.

“Hello,” the woman greeted cheerily. “Here for an appointment?”

“Yes—I’m Mr. Smith and I made an appointment with Mr. Mason last week for him and Mr. Cass to do a couple portraits,” John explained. He held onto his wiggly son who was trying to escape his grasp in an effort to explore while the receptionist giggled at them.

“Mr. Mason and _Miss_ Cass are in right now, if you want to go back,” she said. The Smiths followed her into the back room, where two men and a woman were tinkering about with some equipment and set pieces. “Our three o’clock’s here: the Smiths.”

“Thanks Alice,” one of the men replied. He then stepped forward, adjusting his eyeglasses before shaking John and Clara’s hands. “I’m Mason Bennett; this is my business partner Sophie Cass, and over there’s Tim Lunn, the lad who interprets for her and does odd jobs around the place.”

“…interprets?” Clara wondered.

“Stone deaf,” Mason explained. “She’s a brilliant photographer though, I can assure you on that. Her eye for detail can’t be matched.”

“I can only imagine,” John nodded in agreement.

“I’m sorry, but you’re here for one of you and the missus and one of the children, right?” Tim asked, walking up to them with Sophie.

“Plus one of the family,” John added. They watched as Tim signed the information to Sophie and she responded quickly.

“Okay—I’ll make sure the kids are alright while she poses you up,” Tim said. When John tried to pass him Davey, the little boy clung to his father tightly.

“It’s okay,” Clara assured him. “Mummy and Daddy are going to be right here, where you can see us.”

“No go,” Davey whined.

Tim frowned in thought as he tried to think of a way to make the child feel at-ease, when Sophie dashed off and returned wearing a hand puppet with bells in the head. Davey peeked at the puppet from his father’s chest, curious about the tinny jingly noise. While Davey was distracted, Sophie handed Tim a puppet of his own, which he quickly put on and joined in. The adults were quickly able to get the toddler to cooperate and soon both John and Clara were released from their children.

“Good thinking,” John chuckled, giving Sophie an “okay” sign. She beamed and motioned for the couple to sit down on the fabric-covered boxes between a camera and a marbled grey-blue backdrop, to which they complied. Sitting close, John placed his arm around Clara’s waist and pressed a kiss to her temple.

After a few minutes of being posed and adjusted and readjusted, with measurements carefully taken with a light meter that dictated how she positioned and screened the lights, everything was to Sophie’s specifications. Mason snapped a couple shots before they were rearranged again and more photos were taken.

“Looks like that’s about done—how about one with the kids now?” Mason suggested.

“Good idea; let me change my son into what he needs to wear,” Clara said. She went over towards the corner and found that Tim was bouncing Wynn on his knee while Davey was sitting on his shoulders and playing with his curly hair.

“He’s very energetic, ma’am,” Tim mentioned as she took the boy off of him. “You must have your hands full.”

“I am sorry about that,” she said, reaching into her bag for Davey’s clothes. The toddler stood there curiously as his mother changed him into a dress shirt and tiny kilt, complete with high socks and a change purse that looked like a sporran that hung on his front. “He is a real handful and some days he wears me out just attempting to keep him from climbing up the curtains.”

“It’s alright… it just means he’s being a proper kid,” he replied. “Kids can be kids again, and that’s what counts.”

“Thank you.”

With that, Tim helped Clara by bringing Wynn over towards the photo area, handing the blanket-wrapped girl to her father. With the blanket’s red-based tartan pattern the same as the one on Davey’s kilt, the children matched perfectly not only to one another, but the red in their mother’s dress and the red in their father’s jacket lining.

“This one will be a little trickier, since we don’t want to hide the little one’s kilt,” Tim interpreted for Sophie. She finally made it so that Davey stood between John and Clara, with the latter holding Wynn. A couple shots and the parents switched, John getting a turn for the next few.

Then, it was the kids’ turn.

“Mummy!” Davey whined, holding up his arms as she stood. Instead of picking him up, she fussed again over his hair.

“Not now—you have to be a good boy and stand still with Wynnie so that the nice people can take your portrait,” she explained. He looked at his sister, blanket covering most of her and her white dress as she was being propped up into a sitting position, and pouted.

“ _Mummy!_ ”

“No sweetie. Now if you’re a good boy, we can stop by the bakery on our way back and get some special biscuits. How about that?”

“…kay,” Davey replied.

He watched as his parents went over towards the camera-lady, who put the puppet on her hand and began moving it around. The movement and bells were enough to make both children laugh, allowing Mason to take the necessary photos. The puppet was so amusing to Davey, in fact, that after everything was done, he was still laughing hard enough to double over and lose balance, tumbling off the box and onto his bum on the rug below.

“Ow! Mummy! Boom!” the boy sobbed. His sister stared at him in bewilderment as she watched him get picked up and allowed to smush his face into their mother’s chest. Their father scooped her up from the set and made sure she was alright, glad that her brother’s cries didn’t start her off as well.

“How long until the prints are ready to look at?” John asked, raising his voice slightly so as to be heard over his son.

“Any time next week—don’t worry about it,” Mason replied. The parents then ushered the children from the studio, hoping that Davey would settle down while in the car.

In the end, they not only got biscuits from the bakery, but a miniature tart for Davey as well, which was eaten before the car even turned onto Grynden Street.


	28. August Picnic in Glasgow, 1955

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: Nenabaez
> 
> Prompt: I wonder how would have been for the Smith-Oswalds to take Davey and Wynn to Scotland when the kids were already able in their naive minds, to ask questions about their parents and specially their dad's past. You know? Like John not being able to go off topic because you know! You can lie to your children. They'll judge you if you do. And declaring or saying really pretty... Fulfilling statement about his lovely lady wife???
> 
> Originally posted: 29 October 2016
> 
> Notes: 1086 words; takes place August 1955, when the kids are both 6; also contains Donny (who is 11) and Collette

“Here we are… a nice picnic,” John said, sitting down on the tartan blanket in the shade of a tree. Davey and Wynn sat down with him, dragging the basket along between them. The two children began digging through the picnic supplies in search of their sandwiches and treats, not paying attention to their father.

“I wonder when Mum, Aunt Collie, and Donny are coming with the soda pops,” Davy said idly. He took out the bag of crisps while Wynn got the sandwiches.

“Soon enough,” John answered. He glanced around the park, seeing that there were other families taking advantage of the warm summer day to spend some time together in town. It was a bit of a guilty feeling, knowing he was out with all the family while Duncan was at work, but that was the nature of visiting during the work week. The Smiths wouldn’t head back to London until Monday, however, which meant that there was plenty of time within the next five days to spend some time with both families together.

“Daddy, where did you and Mummy meet?” Wynn wondered. She unwrapped the paper from the sandwiches and took the napkins from the basket. “She told me on the bus that you and her met near here.”

“Sort of near here,” he replied. “We met in a pub in Clydebank, the next town over. She wasn’t even in town a week.”

“Can we go see it when we’re done with our picnic?” she asked.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible; the pub was destroyed during the War, and when the owner rebuilt, he did so in a different location.”

“Lots of things were destroyed in the War, weren’t they?” Davey recalled. “That’s why we can’t see your old house either.”

“That’s true,” his father said. “The flat block is still around, but I’d rather not go there—too many bus exchanges and we would only be allowed on the outside.”

This seemed to satisfy the boy, though his sister still had questions. “You said that you and Mummy were like love at third sight—why was that?”

“Well… we didn’t know if we’d see one another after the first time we met, the second time I asked her on a date, and the third was the date itself.”

“How old were you? You’re sixty-three now, so you were…” She tried counting on her fingers and scowled at the fact she didn’t know the answer.

“Forty-eight,” John laughed. “Your mam and I met in January of 1940.”

“If Mummy hadn’t had her birthday yet, that means she was twenty!” Wynn exclaimed. She quickly did the calculations and pondered. “That’s a lot of years apart.”

“It is,” he said, “but it ended up not being the worst thing in the world. We fell in love, and that’s what matters.”

“…Dad…?”

“Yes David?”

“Does that mean you knew Mum for three months before you got married?” he asked. John blinked at him, unsure if he should answer truthfully or avoid the question.

“I did,” he said, deciding on the former. “In retrospect, it was a very reckless decision. We’re still married after all these years, but it doesn’t mean that what we did was smart.”

“If it wasn’t smart, then why’d you get married?” Wynn asked.

John thought about that, formulating the answer carefully while his children watched on. “While I had dated a few women before your mam, I knew that there was something about her that made her special. The job I had building ships was dangerous—people could very easily die in accidents if they weren’t careful—and I didn’t want something to happen to me and then she be left with nothing. If I died without marrying her, I would have never forgiven myself.”

“Why wasn’t it smart to get married though?” Wynn persisted.

“Three months isn’t very much time at all to get to know someone,” John said. “Mam and I took a lot of risks doing things the way we did things. For all we knew, I could have been hiding a mean side while she could have had another husband somewhere and was lying about him not existing.”

“You do have a mean side though, Dad,” Davey added. “You don’t like people with pudding for brains or the lady down the street who keeps ravens or when you spill your yogurt on the kitchen floor.”

“I meant… um… how do I say this…” He scratched his head in thought, ruffling his hair. “There are some people who are very mean to those they’re closest to, whether it be with words or by hitting, and they are able to trick the ones on the receiving end into thinking it’s okay when it’s not.”

“You wouldn’t do that to Mum though,” Davey said resolutely. “You love Mum too much to do something like that.”

“Correct,” John said. “I love her so much—she’s the reason I am here, alive and healthy, with two brilliant children, my career back, and such a loving family—that I couldn’t possibly imagine being mean to her like that. Swiping the last of her favorite biscuits, yes, but that’s the worst I’ll get.”

“Hey! There’s Mummy!” Wynn gasped. She stood and hopped up and down, waving down her mother, aunt, and cousin as they approached with a six-pack of bottles fresh from the shop down the road.

“Wow, that line was _brutal_ ,” Collette said. She sat down on the blanket and raised an eyebrow at John. “You alright? You’ve got the sad face going on.”

“I’m fine,” he said. John waited until Clara sat down next to him and leaned in, kissing her lips gently. “I’ve got my lovely lady by my side; it’s impossible to be sad for long.”

“I’d be sad if I were living in London with you, Uncle John,” Donny frowned. “Aunt Clara said you can’t get this kind of soda pop where you live and it’s my favorite.” He took the top off one of the glass bottles and put a straw in the orange liquid, handing it to Wynn.

“We have a candy shop by our house that sells soda pop—we should go there when you visit us,” Wynn suggested. While she, her cousin, and brother talked and her aunt passed out the sandwiches, her parents talked lowly between one another.

“Are you alright?” Clara asked. “I know the kids have been non-stop questions lately.”

“I am,” John assured her. “There’s no way… not with you around.”

“I’m glad.”


	29. Santa and His Elves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: So at some point, I'm guessing, both Davey and Wynn figure out that their Dad "helps" Santa/Father Christmas by putting on the red suit and passing out toys to the neighborhood kids nearly every Christmas, when they're both a little older?
> 
> Originally posted: 19 December 2016
> 
> Notes: 1007 words; takes place early/mid December, 1964; makes references to main story things including John and Clara's first set of neighbors, the kids' pet rabbits, sewing abilities, and two very unconventional Santas

“Mum, this makes me look like a nutter,” Davey scowled. He frowned at the reflection staring back at him in his parents’ full-length mirror, apparently the only other face that agreed with him. Just because red and green were opposites did not make him think that they looked good together, and just because he was complaining did not mean that his mother paid him any heed as she mended the right cuff of his coat.

“Nah—makes you look like a ponce,” Wynn snarked. She was sitting at the vanity as she fussed with her hair. It wasn’t curling the way she wanted it to, which was only making her cranky.

“At least I’m not wearing candy canes on my legs.”

“They’re _striped leggings_ , you nit—”

“Oswynne, stop making fun of your brother,” Clara scolded. “David, I am armed with sharp objects—don’t make me use them for alternative purposes.”

“Dad sews better anyhow,” the boy muttered.

“You don’t know how true that is,” his mother mumbled. She finished tying off the thread and quickly snipped it before stepping back and observing her handiwork. “It’ll have to do. Come on now; get a move on or you’re going to be late.”

“Dad’s not even close to ready!”

“Cut the sass, David, I’m warning you,” Clara threatened. She knew it was simply her son being a teenaged boy, but she also knew that she, as his mother, did not have to tolerate it. “Go have a cuppa to brace yourself while I straighten out your father—both of you.”

The teens both sulked out of the room, allowing Clara to put away her needle and thread before barging into the ensuite, where John was still showering. She double-checked the red suit that was hanging on the towel rack, making sure she didn’t have to mend that as well; investing in one had proven to be worthwhile in the end, though it also meant that they were in charge of the mending, which seemed to pop up at the most inopportune times.

“Can you please shut the door? All the steam’s getting out,” John requested, poking his head out the curtain.

“You should be a prune at this rate,” she replied. He grumbled as he turned off the water and grabbed a towel to dry off. “The kids are both ready—all the elves need now is a Santa.”

“Dunno _why_ I got talked into doing this,” he groused. “I thought that the neighborhood kids all getting older meant I could finally get rid of this stupid suit.”

“…because your editor asked and you can’t say no to the sight of children discovering Father Christmas showed up at their parents’ work party,” Clara chuckled. With a towel wrapped around her husband’s waist, she hugged him from behind despite the fact he was still sopping wet. “You know… I was thinking about our first Christmas together earlier today. You remember?”

“In retrospect, it’s probably a good thing that couch was burnt to a crisp in the bombing,” John said. “It saw a bit too much in my opinion.”

“Then I pity the people who got the flat after we did,” she said. She let go and stepped back, allowing him to continue drying off and getting ready. “Still, I don’t think we could have imagined this back then.”

“A house in London? Kids?”

“You playing Santa—that first Christmas was just us curled up together, contemplating and hoping the War would end soon so that you could get away from the neighborhood kids.”

“You know how it was, watching a bright face turn dull as their brain went to pudding,” he said sadly. “Think of all the ones you saw, then maybe more than triple that, and that was my life on Wissforn.”

“I know… I know,” she frowned. Clara handed John his trousers once he had his pants and vest on, helping him into his coat afterwards. “Still good deep down though.”

“…and that is what helps the most,” he agreed. John finished putting the costume on and examined himself in the nearly-defogged mirror, nodding in something akin to approval. “Wee rascals won’t know what hit them.”

“It’s just a good thing not many of your coworkers bring in their children in a season that’s not the summer,” Clara laughed. She stroked her husband’s seasonal beard, still a bit damp from the shower, and perched on her toes to peck his lips. “Father Christmas never looked so shaggable.”

“…moreso than last year?”

“Possibly; one never really knows these things for certain,” she winked. She sent him out the room with a gentle tap on his rear, to which he immediately went downstairs and into the kitchen where the kids were waiting on him.

“Alright elves—you ready?” he asked.

“Still don’t know why we have to do this,” Davey pouted. “They’ll know it’s us.”

“That’s not the point,” John said. “The point is that someone showed up in the suit with presents and that means that Santa came. Come on now; into the sleigh and be glad we’re not taking the bus like last time.” The kids both stood up and their father immediately snapped his fingers, holding out his hand. “David, give the owl here.”

“He’s a better idea than Dillon and Flynn the Christmas Buns from last year,” the teen protested. He took the stuffed toy from his pocket and placed it on the table next to the utensil cup. “Isn’t Mum coming?”

“Mrs. Claus gets to wrap things for Santa and the elves while they’re gone, so get a move on,” Clara announced as she entered the kitchen. She ushered her family towards the front door, nearly shoving them out on the porch. “Go on, shoo! Or Strax gets to play Santa at _this house_ Christmas morning.”

That put the proper amount of terror into them and Santa and his elves quickly piled in his junker sleigh, riding off with a sputter-bang and a distinct reluctance to see if Mrs. Claus was bluffing or not.


	30. Meet Mr. Turlough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: Now when it came to David Smith taking over as "The Doctor" from his dad, was it John's plan all along, realizing how talented his brilliant son was, or did Davey broach the subject one day?
> 
> Originally posted: 29 December 2016
> 
> Notes: 1543 words; I only watched the first couple episodes of Mawdryn Undead and GOSH is Turlough a douchenozzle (though I know what blah blah blah he gets a bit nicer blah); takes place in Spring 1968; I would have finished this days ago except a combination of holiday stuff, Pokémon, and Terrace House being played within my line of vision; also just kinda ends for the same reasons

Sitting at his desk at the publisher’s, John sorted through his mail, hoping to get things done before he was caught up in any sort of extended coworker encounter. The last thing he needed was for him to get distracted and then be there well past what he had planned; he and Clara had plans to go out that night and he did not want to either cancel or put it off for too long. He was so concentrated on a letter that he did not notice Mr. Brown’s secretary until she tapped him on the shoulder.

“Mr. Smith?” He jumped in surprise, which spooked her as well. “Oh! I’m sorry!”

“Please don’t do that—I’m not a young man anymore.”

“I just wanted to tell you that Mr. Brown wants you to stop by his office on your way out.”

“I can do that,” he replied. He waited until she was out of earshot to grumble obscenities under his breath, cursing the fact that he was caught. As John grew older, he found he had less patience for the offices and impromptu meetings. He had been talking with Clara here and there for years about his eventual retirement, yet as the years went by he felt the urge to make good on the threats to cut the cord and become a full-time old codger.

Instead of attempting to dodge the various secretaries that he was sure would catch him on the way out, John went and bit the bullet and went straight to Mr. Brown’s office when he was done. He went through since the sanctum was unguarded and found his editor standing there talking with a young man the illustrator had never seen before. Mr. Brown noticed John almost immediately, cutting off his other conversation short.

“Smith, glad you made it; I’d like you to meet the newest member of the editorial staff,” he said. The young man stepped forward and shook John’s hand. “Turlough here is prepping to take on some of my authors when I retire.”

“Are you interested in children’s literature, Mr. Turlough?” John asked politely.

“Possibly,” he replied. His posh voice seemed almost jarring compared to John’s broad Glasgow and Mr. Brown’s middle-class London. “I didn’t realize that our prized catch is as close to retirement age as our Brown.”

“My kids are finishing up their second term at uni as we speak, so I’m not as old as I look,” John snarked in an attempt to keep things professional.

“Oh really? Studying what?”

“My daughter is sitting classes in maths and computers since that’s not only what she loves but where she excels, though my son is seeing if art is his calling.”

“If that works out, then you could have bred yourself a tailor-made replacement for when your hands get a bit too shaky… that is, if art is his calling and not his hobby.”

“I want him to get a year in under someone other than me before we make that sort of decision,” John frowned. “He’s my son and everything he’s ever drawn has been perfect, but that’s what happens when you’re a father. Some stepping back and letting others work with him will help with that.”

“Whether he ends up taking over your position or not, I’m still disappointed in the current state of legacy positions in the nation,” Turlough sighed. “Very few are trained properly these days; it’s not a bad thing for one to take over their father’s job.”

“I wouldn’t be standing here right now if a boy taking their father’s job was still the norm,” John said. “If David wants to do what I do, that’s fine, but if he doesn’t then there’s nothing I can do to stop him.”

“Did I touch a nerve?”

“Old men’s nerves are too numb to get upset when a boy fresh out of public school says something insensitive.”

“Alright, enough of that,” Mr. Brown said, stepping between his coworkers. “That was all I wanted you for; you can go back to whatever you were doing.”

“I was on my way out—see you both later,” John said. He left the office as quickly as he could, glad for the reprieve. A younger him might have been able to deal with the new editor, but too much time around the lad now and things were liable to go sour at breakneck speeds.

Except, when he found his car in the carpark, he thought about the one thing he took away that wasn’t enraging: the idea that Davey might take over for him. He was a patient lad when it came to people like Mr. Turlough, and it wasn’t as though he had started off going into the program with no skills whatsoever. It was definitely a possibility, though it also made him think about when he was young and his father wanted him to take over the foreman position at the shipyard. Davey hadn’t gone into the art program because he was forced to by any means, but it was also a delicate subject, one that could change the teen’s career path in an instant. John didn’t want to ruin anything on accident and he knew first-hand that it would be incredibly easy to do. It would have to be delicately handled… except there was the glaring fact that he was less subtle than Strax when chasing the neighborhood stray cat out of the garden.

What was he going to do?

* * *

A couple weeks later and the run-in with Mr. Turlough was still on his mind. His children had been home from school for a few days at that point, the summer holiday finally upon them. It was nagging John so much that he put down his pencil and left his studio, headed over to Davey’s open bedroom. He could still hear the sound of Wynn’s records downstairs, which meant that he would very likely be undisturbed… key word being _likely_. Knocking on the door, he grabbed his son’s attention from the magazine he was reading on his bed.

“How’s it going?”

“Not bad—getting used to not being in classes almost every day is weird.”

“I’m sure.” John glanced at Davey’s desk and saw the small pile of sketchbooks sitting atop it. He stepped into the room and casually pointed them out. “Mind if I have a look?”

“Sure, go ahead,” the young man said. He panicked, however, when he saw his father take the one second from the top. “No, not that one!”

“Let me guess: Life Drawing?” John chuckled. “I was in art school once too, as ancient history books prove; naked people aren’t a shock.”

“It’s, um, not that,” Davey admitted, face going red. John opened the sketchbook and saw that it was filled with cartoony sketches of people and characters, some of which were very familiar.

“You drew Sir Spoon… and Timmy the Tiger… and your sister,” he observed. “I’m a bit impressed, to be honest. Do they have copies of the books at the school library?”

“I dunno—those are from memory mostly,” the teen said. “They’re not nearly as good as yours, but I figured I might as well start trying some character stuff and be ahead of the game for when that class rolls around in Autumn.”

“If that’s true, then I’d say you’re in the correct program,” his father nodded. “I wasn’t sure when you started, being I’m your da and all, but this proves it.” He closed the book and placed it back down on the desk, giving his son a smile. “I won’t give it to you unless you deserve it, but would you like my job?”

Davey’s eyes bugged. “ _What_ …?”

“I already know I won’t last much longer at the publishing house—I’ve been staring down the barrel of retirement for years now—and I’ve been thinking about leaving being ‘the Doctor’ to someone else… someone who I can trust to keep up the name well.”

“…do you think I can do it just by looking at my sketchbooks?”

“This is you under proper instruction; what I see is a definite improvement from summer if you ask me. Prove yourself in school and I imagine I can convince Mr. Brown to hire you on as my assistant, and you can take over more and more until it’s all your show.” John shrugged and picked up another sketchbook, this one being the nudes from life drawing. “If books aren’t your thing, I can put in a good word with the advertising department, or even somewhere different entirely. No child of mine has a brain of pudding, and even if it takes them a little while to figure out where they’re meant to be, I want to help them.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Davey said quietly. He took his sketchbook from his father, unable to look him straight-on. “I’ll consider it… but what if I don’t want to go into art after all?”

“Are you considering changing your major?”

“I don’t know—it’s been a rough semester.”

“Whether you do or don’t, I’ll be there for you. I’m there for your sister, aren’t I?”

Davey considered that and smiled slightly. “It’s not the same, but it kinda is, isn’t it?”

“That it is.”


	31. The Numbers Are In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: Suindara
> 
> Prompt: Please... write about 1) In chapter 49 of TTTWLB John says Clara that he is a prized author. I would like to read about the ceremony. Was he a revelation writer? And I imagine that he remembered that other titles he wrote earlier in that Glasgow publisher and he wondered that all he suffered are worth after all.
> 
> Originally posted: 08 January 2017
> 
> Notes: "Prized" in this case happens to mean "highly valued" (because, well, the English language is like that), but I can fill this prompt just the same; 1005 words; takes place in November 1946, just before and after chapter 48

Riding the lift up to the publisher's, John held the strap to the bag over his shoulder awkwardly, trying not to bump into anyone on accident. All he wanted was to get in and out, even if it was never, ever that easy. He got out on the correct floor and walked into the offices with a direct path towards Mr. Brown's.

"Go on in," the secretary said without looking up from her typing. John cautiously entered the room, closing the door behind him.

"Ah, hello Mr. Smith," Brown grinned. John stayed over by the door, not entirely sure what to do.

"Hello," he said. "What's with the face?"

"I'm glad to see you, is all," Brown replied. "Sit down, please." John did and waited for him to continue. "You seem nervous."

"You normally don't look so…"

"Pleased?"

"I was thinking more _frightening_."

Brown laughed at that, swiveling idly in his chair. "I know we went over how well you did the first two weeks of _Kittens Come Home_ being in shops, but I got in the final results of the ten week mark yesterday."

"…and…?"

"It beats our prewar numbers by a long shot—Misters Gordon and Kensington are very pleased by the numbers. They were wary at first when I signed you on, but now they're fairly excited by what has transpired. We could really have something here."

"Really?" John wondered. "I'm surprised that the others were convinced by just a couple numbers, but then again, they are businessmen. Your gamble paid off."

"It did." Brown eyed John's portfolio, his gaze almost hungry. "You have the new draft?"

"Two, actually," he said. " For the first one, I figured an allegorical tale was something that might be needed on the market, or at least might help some things along."

"What do you mean?"

"Four friends want to go away on a trip, but one has to stay behind because he can't afford to go after all," John said, taking the draft out of his bag. "The three that leave have a great time and send the fourth postcards while he watches over their houses…"

"…like the men that were unable to go to war," Brown surmised.

"Exactly—the fourth feels bad that he couldn't go, but two of his friends return with photographs and souvenirs to share, and are happy that they could return to him."

"…and the one that stayed abroad represents those who never returned from the war."

"It's almost as though you've done this editing thing before," John snarked. He then fished the other draft out of his portfolio and continued talking, hoping that he could slip in a vanity project under the radar. A brother and sister going to the seaside shouldn't have been that big of a deal, but he really wanted to write it, for reasons he left unspoken.

* * *

Softly padding up the stairs with a tray and dressed in just his pants, John brought tea into the bedroom where his lovely wife was still sleeping soundly. He sat down on his side of the bed and set the tray on the bedspread before shaking her shoulder.

"Hey, time for your favorite meal of the day," he said. Her eyes fluttered open and she gazed up at him with a smile on her lips.

"Penance for not keeping up?" she chuckled.

"You could say that." He slid his legs under the blanket as she sat up, putting the tray across both their laps. "How has your day been? Other than the obvious?"

"Nothing too interesting aside from the box," she replied. "I think I'm going to find frames for some of those photos so we can display them—no use keeping them hidden away."

"I can make them; a couple of those photos are a bit irregular if I remember correctly." He took a sip of his tea and frowned.

"What?"

"Nothing, just… I had a discussion earlier with Mr. Brown about the sales of _Kittens Come Home_."

"I thought it was doing well," she said.

"It's doing better than any of their children's titles present or past—they want to give me a bonus."

"Wouldn't that be something to be _happy_ about?"

"I am happy, but that's one book out of many," he shrugged. "So much of my stuff is lost that I don't know where to begin as far as getting them back in print."

"I doubt you could though; it's a different world," Clara noted. "There might be some in the children's section of a couple libraries, but that might be it… unless you wanted to contact private residences in Scotland."

"No… people have better things to do than look for some old books from when they were nips," John said. "Like works of the Great Masters, some of my work is simply going to be lost for the ages."

"Now you're being melancholy for melancholy's sake," she replied. "Lots of things were lost, but that doesn't mean they won't be remembered."

"You don't know that."

"What I do know is that there are some things that kids remember vividly, and your books were good enough to where I can almost guarantee that some remember them even though they lost the hard copies."

"You can't know that."

"John, I _worked_ with children—trust me." She took hold of his hand and brought it to her lips for a kiss. "They remember your books, even if they're now grown with children of their own, because those are the sorts of stories that you write."

"You're still saying that because we're married."

"Just _one_ of the reasons why I'm saying it, idiot," she said. Clara leaned against his shoulders and hummed quietly. "Then again, I did get the best bit that survived the War."

"Oh? What's that?"

"As if I have to spell it out for you." The two chuckled and pecked one another's lips gently. "I'd do it all over again if I had to, you know that."

"I know, and I am honored."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The stories mentioned in the part at the publisher's were what would eventually become the book John is working on in chapter 52 and the book mentioned in chapter 26 of the prompt fills.


	32. The Kids' Weddings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: Suindara
> 
> Prompt: Would you write chapters about Winnie and David weddings? Mainly Winnie's wedding when John could lead her trough the aisle and give her to Orson. And about Davey's wedding... John being happy that his son hadn't waited so long to marry and have a family.
> 
> Originally posted: 10 January 2017
> 
> Notes: 846, 437, and 1066 words for a total of 2348 words; makes mention of events from Chapter Nine, the Victoria subplot, and the Case of the Vanishing Soufflé; all I can say is poor Davey

_May 1970_

“…you _what?!_ ” Davey hissed. His eyes nearly bugged as he stared at Wynn and Orson in front of him, all three glad that his roommate was in class at the moment, which meant that the three of them were completely alone. “Not that I _disapprove_ of the two of you, but you’ve barely been dating a month this time around!”

“Yeah, well sometimes this stuff _happens_ whether we like it or not,” his sister growled back, going on the defensive. “Then again, it’s not like you’d have any experience in these matters; I don’t know why I’m talking to you…”

“…because I’m your brother and of course I have experience… just not in this specific situation… damn it, you two are still in school!”

“I’m a work-study and Orson still has his delivery job, so _we can and will manage_ ,” Wynn snapped. “Now, are you going to be a witness or am I going to have to hit you hard enough to where you don’t remember this entire conversation?”

“What are you going to tell our families, hmm?” Davey asked, beginning to pace over every available inch of the tiny sitting room. “Okay, it could be a false alarm and you never have to tell anyone else about having a sneaking courthouse wedding until your church service, but what if it isn’t?! ‘ _Oh sorry but we were being too hormonal to think about condoms; when do you want it to be your turn to babysit?_ ’ You’re **_mental_**!”

“Should I, um, leave?” Orson asked.

“No, what you should do is find a DARSIT and go back in time to stop yourself from buying her Dilly,” Davey said.

“Dilly’s just a rabbit…”

“…and the catalyst to this entire situation.”

“Admit it: I’ll make a better brother-in-law than Harold ever could have,” Orson said.

“Can’t argue there.” He then froze mid-step and spun around, heading for the kitchenette. “I need tea.”

“What you need is a girl,” Wynn scoffed. Her brother flashed a rude hand gesture, which only made her laugh.

“Was it imprinting? Did the two of you accidentally imprint on one another when you were sharing a cot as babies?”

“Would you like to know what I figure?” Orson asked. Davey made a noise and his friend continued. “My boss was reminiscing one day about when he was young that he and his wife were legally married a whole year before their church service, because they couldn’t afford both at the time and it then gave them all that extra time of being married on paper. Depending on what happens down the line, a house or flat might go better to a couple that’s been married five years compared to three.”

“…and if I have a niece or nephew by this time next year?”

“We slipped up, which would be the truth, but _when_ would be the lie… for at least a little while… until after the time our parents would be cross with us.” Orson frowned as Davey brought the battered tea tray with old mugs into the sitting room for them, feeling guilty for his friend. “We don’t even know for certain—we just want to be safe. You know I wouldn’t lie to Dad unless it was absolutely necessary.”

“Yeah, I know; there’s only one problem with your plan though… none of us are particularly religious, so why would we be fussing over a church service?”

“…because it’s _romantic_ ,” Wynn insisted. “Besides, Mum is, a bit—no one with fond memories of Sunday School isn’t at least a little bit—and if I asked Dad to walk me down the aisle he would in a heartbeat.”

“They never had a church service though, and Audrey never even gave Mr. Pink the chance to marry her—a legal union is the best of our parents’ generation, and if we go with grandparents, shit, then that’s judging today’s society on the habits of Victorians and _flappers_.”

“Alright, so what if Dad never got to do the whole marriage thing? I think he’d want better for me, and part of that would be a chance at a church service, if we can afford to wait it out.” Orson held Wynn’s hand as he sipped his tea, both acts comforting. “At least I know it’s Wynn I’m supposed to be with—that’s not changing.”

“No, I didn’t think it was,” Davey nodded. “At least I’m having this conversation with you; you always were the closest thing I had to a brother, and now it’ll be official.”

“Does this mean you’re coming along tomorrow?” Wynn asked.

“I have to, don’t I?” he sighed. “Siblings keep one another’s secrets, or so I’m told. Do you remember when we ate Dad’s birthday soufflé?”

“Probably the only good one Mum’s ever made,” she snorted. “She probably still thinks it was Strax.”

“…and Strax she shall think it was forevermore,” her brother insisted. He held out his mug and they all clinked theirs together in a toast, hoping that things were going to go well despite not going as planned in the slightest.

* * *

_March 1972_

The small church was teeming with excitement as the music became progressively cheerier. While Davey was making sure Orson stayed calm in the front of the church, Wynn was in the back making sure her father didn’t sob himself into a coma.

“Dad, please, relax,” she insisted. “Orson and I are already married—you don’t need to be like this.”

“I will be like this if I damn well please,” he said stubbornly. “I’m eighty, older than any of the men in my family that came before me, and I think I deserve to cry at my daughter’s wedding ceremony.”

“…and what would Aunt Sarah Jane say?”

“I think she would have backed me on this.” Despite the tears leaking from his eyes, he pretended nothing was wrong. “Don’t deny an old man something he didn’t think would happen.”

“You and Mum have been married over thirty years—don’t give me that.”

“But forty years ago I would have laughed off the entire idea.” He then grew quiet as he silently recalled math he had gone over countless times in his head. “Nearly thirty years ago and I don’t know what I would have done.”

“Victorias happen, Dad,” Wynn said, putting a hand on his shoulder. She hesitated, yet decided to go through with it anyhow. “You know, Orson and I might’ve had a Victoria of our own. We don’t know for certain, but… it’s possible we did.”

“Your mam and I figured as much, given how quickly you two decided to marry,” he replied. His voice was tiny and hoarse from the morning of crying that hadn’t yet stopped despite it being the afternoon. “Even if we got cross, we wouldn’t have stayed so for long… you know that, right?”

“What I know is that Orson and I have some of the best parents in the world looking after us, and when we do have kids, they’ll be some of the best grandparents. Shit, Granddad should be a pro at accepting odd situations when it comes to this stuff.”

“Oswynne, language.” The organ switched songs and he held out his arm. “That’s our cue, sweetling.”

Wynn silently took hold of his arm and they walked into the main of the church. John tried to keep it together, but began to crack once again when he saw the look on Orson’s face when Wynn was finally in full view. He lifted his daughter’s veil and allowed her to make the final steps towards her husband alone, going to Clara’s side a veritable mess.

She held his hand through the entire service—it was going to be alright.

* * *

_December 1974_

It was the Friday after Christmas and things were quiet on Grynden Street. Many homes were still in a sort of post-Christmas haze, the Smith-Oswald Household being one of them. Penny was over, as her parents were visiting friends with a child-unfriendly flat, and the toddler was making the best of it.

“Aunt Nyssa, wanna play?” she asked. Davey and Nydia were curled up on the couch together while watching some television, which was not within the child’s current parameters of fun.

“It’s a rerun, so I think we can,” Nydia replied. She had been over at the house a lot since the offices closed for the holiday thanks to not having anywhere else to go, though she also knew she had been putting off playing with the girl for a while in lieu of helping with dinner and such. Standing, she pecked Davey on the cheek and allowed Penny to take her hand and lead her over towards the stairs. The young man waited until he could hear them having safely made it up the stairs before turning off the television with a resounding sigh. He leaned back into the couch, tilting his head back and taking deep, calming breaths.

“Is something the matter, son?”

Davey looked and saw his father standing in the doorway to the sitting room, staring at him with concern. Other than Nydia and Penny, they were the only two people in the house, thanks to Clara taking her father to run some errands before dinner.

“It’s… just me being me,” Davey replied sourly.

“In what way?” John entered the room and sat down next to his son, giving him a comforting pat on the knee. “Come on; tell your old da.”

Davey paused, wondering if he should really say anything. “How did you propose to Mum?”

“Are you thinking about asking Nydia?”

“Just, please, how did you do it?”

“If you must know: I decided, pretty much on a whim because your Auntie Collie was being cranky—don’t ask me how that mattered—to take off at lunch and run over to the school your mam worked at. I got down on one knee in front of all the little ones, but they thought I merely had to tell her something they couldn’t hear, and we went that afternoon into town for the paperwork. She moved in the following day and I don’t know who thought what, but the neighbors were pretty evenly split between thinking we were conning one another or that she was up the duff. That’s the only regret I have, because everything else was cosmetic. Your mam deserved better than that sort of talk, but I don’t know how else it could have happened, considering the times.” He looked at his son, whose gaze was glazed and elsewhere, and nodded once. “Now, tell me what’s the matter.”

Davey shifted to one side and took a small ring box out of a back trouser pocket, holding it up for his father to see. “I was planning on giving her this on Christmas, but something in me… froze, and I haven’t been able to work up the nerves since.”

“Are you unsure of her answer?”

“I… I don’t know… I had thought about it and thought about it, but it just didn’t feel like the right time anymore.” The younger man ran his hand through his hair and exhaled heavily. “What do I do?”

“Whatever you decide to do, I’m sure it will be the right thing,” John said. “You’re not a fool, even if you feel foolish right now, and Nydia is no fool either. The two of you will be fine. All you need to do now is ask.”

A weight dropped in Davey’s stomach and he knew it was true. He shakily stood and pocketed the box again before going up the stairs.  In Wynn’s old room, now the place where Penny stayed overnight, he found his girlfriend playing with his niece, the two quietly playing with old animal figurines. Nydia caught sight of Davey before he had a chance to open his mouth, quickly going to her feet.

“Oh, good—I’ve got to use the loo,” she explained quickly. A quick kiss to his lips and she vanished down the stairs.

“Do you wanna play, Uncle Davey?” Penny wondered. She held up her stuffed owl proudly. “Lix and Randall can be the leader-owls of the zoo!”

“Actually, I have a job for you Penny Laney, if you’re up to it,” Davey said. He sat down next to his niece and took the ring box out of his pocket. “You see this?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s a very special ring I want to give Nyssa, but I’m scared.”

“Why?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. You know how your mummy and daddy wear rings, and Gran and Granddad, and even Granddave? It means they’re married, or in Granddave’s case _was_ married to Gran’s mum, because they’re in love.”

“You wanna wear rings with Aunt Nyssa?”

“Yeah, and make her your Aunt Nyssa for always, but it’s scary. I guess… I guess it’s the fear of guessing her answer incorrectly, of her not being who I think she is.”

“That’s silly, Uncle Davey,” Penny giggled. She took the box from him, unprompted, and scurried out the door. He tried to dive after her, but she was too quick.

“Penny! No! That wasn’t…!” He scrambled to get up and chase after her, but he was too late. By the time he caught up to her downstairs, the preschooler was standing in front of the open bathroom door, giving Nydia the velvet box. He froze, watching the scene stricken in terror.

“Davey, what’s this?” Nydia wondered, walking towards him. “Did she get into your mum’s things when we weren’t looking?”

“No, erm… that’s for you,” he replied. “I just wanted Penny to distract you for me, but…” Davey stopped as she opened the box and her eyes went wide.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Oh, David!” She threw her arms around her blushing boyfriend, now fiancé, and kissed him happily. They held each other close, despite the noises of disgust coming from Penny, who didn’t realize how much of a catalyst she was for their relationship.

“Hey,” Davey chuckled, “now we’ve got no choice but to watch Inspector Spacetime together tomorrow.”

“You idiot,” Nydia laughed. “With a new Inspector? You’ve got to be daft.”


	33. The Seaside, 1950

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: fairyglitterwitch
> 
> Prompt: I was hoping you could do something set in a time that we loved best. John or Clara teaching one of his kids to swim for the first time. (Can he swim?)
> 
> Originally posted: 03 January 2017
> 
> Notes: 997 words; takes place in June 1950 (before Randall the Owl got his name); not exactly about John teaching a bairn how to swim but close enough

Screeching to a halt via the parking break, John pulled his car into the spot and killed the engine. “Alright kids, wake up! We’re here!” He turned in his seat and saw Clara gently waking Wynn in her arms, while Davey laid on the bench seat unmoving, curled up around his toy owl. It had taken most of the morning to reach the quiet, secluded beach that John had known in his uni years, making it so that the children only knew that they had been tossed in the car while too sleepy to protest. “Come on—time to rise and shine!”

“No…!” Davey whimpered. He rolled over to face the back of the seat, though his mother patted him on the back encouragingly.

“Come on—wake up sweetie.”

“No!”

Deciding that was not going to be an appropriate answer, John got out of the car and opened the back door, plucking his son from the seat and putting boy and owl over his shoulder to carry.

“Daddy! No! Sweeps!” Davey protested, kicking his legs.

John ignored his son instead, helping Clara get everything they needed out of the boot and carrying it the short ways it took to get to the sandy beach. He held the children as she spread a yellow-and-black tartan blanket over the sand, depositing the wriggly creatures on the fabric soon as he could.

“Da!” Wynn giggled. Her father beamed.

“Yup—I’m Da,” he replied. “Now listen up kids: this is the seaside and we’re going to have a good time here.”

“Water!” Davey gasped, pointing at the ocean. He jumped up and ran towards the water, only to be snatched up by Clara.

“Oh no you don’t; not without your father,” she warned him.

Davey was sat back down on the blanket until he could be stripped of his shirt and outfitted with inflatable tubes that slid over his arms. It was then, after a removal of shoes and rolling of trouser legs, that he was allowed to take John’s hand and bounce over towards the water’s edge. Seafoam reached his toes and the little boy squealed in delight and surprise.

“Cold!” he giggled.

“Yes, it is very cold,” John chuckled. He then turned to Wynn in his arm, who was staring at her brother and the ocean, back and forth, with her wide eyes. “Do you want a go, sweetling?”

“Wah!” she replied, pointing at the ocean. “Bih wah!”

“Yes, it _is_ a big water,” her father said. He let go of Davey’s hand, as the boy was sufficiently preoccupied by stomping about, and lowered her so that her feet touched the cool, wet sand. She was fine until a new wave came sliding up the shoreline, splashing up to her knees. Wynn shivered in shock, a moment passing before emitting a large, croaking wail that continued until well after she was in her mother’s arms.

“Traumatize the poor thing, why don’t you?” Clara sniped over her daughter’s screams.

“It’s only a bit of water!” John replied. He scowled as he watched Clara take Wynn back to the blanket to dry her off. A tug at his trouser leg snapped him from it though, as Davey wanted his attention.

“We play?” the boy asked.

“We can play,” John said. He walked with Davey as they went further into the waves, the water cresting at the child’s waist. Davey smacked the water as it swirled all around him, a particularly large wave coming through and nearly carrying him off, but John kept hold of him so that the wee lad wouldn’t float away.

“Get over here you two—we should have lunch,” Clara called out. John lifted their son out of the water and carried him back over to the blanket, where a towel was waiting for them. Wynn was already mushing a jam sandwich against her mouth, giving her father and brother a large grin.

“Looks like she’s having a better time,” John said as he sat down.

“The ocean is much colder than her bathwater, remember that,” his wife teased. “Just watch: she could end up an endurance swimmer.”

“Nothing in either family by way of athleticism, unless you’re hiding something in the Ravenwood branch, so I doubt it.” He took a sandwich from the food basket and began to munch idly on it, looking out over the waves. If he squinted, he could see a couple ships out doing their fishing rounds, completely unconcerned with their holidaying.

“It’s the McCrimmon part of their heritage we need to watch out for,” she quipped. “Don’t lie—your Uncle Jamie had _excellent_ legs if those photos of him in a kilt are anything to go by. Family traits sometimes filter down funny, after all.”

“…you mean to say that you’ve stared that long at a photo of my uncle, who has been dead over thirty years, to check over his legs?”

“That’s about the gist of it.” She took the thermal flask containing tea out of the basket and poured herself some. “There’s nothing wrong with admiring, especially if it means getting to anticipate needing to beat the girls off our son come puberty.”

“Clara, that was my _uncle_.”

“…or do you think Wynn’ll be the one to inherit his legs? Those had to of been the best legs in Scotland; don’t try convincing me otherwise.”

“You hear that kids? Your mam’s brain has turned to pudding,” he told the children. “I knew she never thought age was anything, but this is _nutters_.”

Laughing, Clara shoved John’s shoulder, ignoring the confused looks their babies were giving them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to that crafty thing called genetics, a trait that appears in an aunt or uncle sometimes also appears in their sibling’s kid(s), or skips a couple generations before reappearing in a (great-)grandkid, so for all John’s grumbling, Clara could be correct. Also, Frazier Hines had amazing legs fifty years ago in his Jamie McCrimmon days, so there is that at least.


	34. Clara's 60th Birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: Suindara
> 
> Prompt: in chapter 29 Clara tells John that if we wasn't behave he wouldn't se her completing 60 years and sagging. Well we all know that he saw her being 60 years old and sagging! He wold be... 88 years old and with many grandkids... So... perhaps a chapter with a big birthday party when they reminisce that day...
> 
> Originally posted: 31 January 2017
> 
> Notes: 1213 words; takes place on Clara’s 60th birthday, February 11, 1979, which is not November 21st because I established her TTTWLB-verse birthday before we got the canon confirmation; Teddy is not born yet, leaving only Penny, Rita, and Liz as the grandkids; John would also be 87 years old, because of how birthdays work and blah blah; was just going to make this the first part, but decided that there needed to be more because reasons

It was early on a Sunday morning, just before the brink of dawn, when Clara felt her husband’s scratchy beard ghost along her skin while he planted kisses along her neck. She wriggled in his grasp, turning around so that she could at least face him, discovering that it did not stop his affections.

“John, _behave_ ,” she insisted. “It’s not even light out yet.”

“It’s the gloamin’,” he replied into her neck. “Still your birthday, and one I never thought I’d see either.”

“…and I’ve been hearing that for nine birthdays already,” she said. Clara kissed the tip of his nose and giggled. “Let’s get up before Dad does—enjoy the quiet.”

“I’ll agree to that.”

The two of them got out of bed and went down the stairs, John more shuffling than walking, and crept past Dave’s room to get to the kitchen. They closed the door before putting together tea and a light breakfast of toast with jam and marmalade. Sitting next to one another, the couple held hands while they ate.

“You know, I’ve been giving more thought into taking the early retirement package the school offered,” Clara mentioned. “We can find the time for more quiet breakfasts like this.”

“I thought you weren’t leaving as long as Danny wasn’t,” John frowned. “No one wants you to leave, do they?”

“No; it’s just I’ve been reexamining my priorities. Penny is six and Liz and Rita are three—they’re growing up faster than Davey and Wynn did.” She took a sip of tea and sighed softly. “Then there’s Dad, who’s getting to be too much a handful for just you during the day…”

“Dave’s not a problem—”

“You’re _older than him,_ John,” she reminded him. “It doesn’t matter when it comes to _us_ —you’ve known that almost forty years now—but I don’t want you getting accidentally on the wrong end of things just because you were the only other one in the house.”

“…and if things are really that bad, I can call Nydia…”

“…who still lives fifteen minutes away, _and_ wants to have another baby, in case you’ve forgotten the conversation from _your_ birthday already. Those are not good things to throw into the mix of an emergency.”

“Can we not fight on your birthday?”

“We are not fighting, we are discussing, and I am ending the discussion by saying that I am more than likely going to take that package so I can spend more time with you and Dad and our granddaughters. You’re not so insecure you don’t want to be married to a pensioner, are you?”

“No,” he replied. John quietly chewed on some toast, reminiscing. “You remember when we were living in your office?”

“Too vividly,” Clara half-scoffed. “Why?”

“Remember when I got into that fight at the pub while we were there? The one where Collette brought me back?”

“I thought you swore up and down the next day you didn’t remember much of it.”

“Well, I do remember this much: I told you that if I made it to your sixtieth, that I would be more in love with you than I saw then, and that wasn’t a lie.” He squeezed her hand in his and gave her a smile, eyes glassy and grey. “Don’t take that pension package unless you really, _truly_ want to, because we will make do whether you stay at work or don’t. I know how much you love teaching, and if you still had more classroom years in you but gave them up to take care of what I still can…”

“You silly old man,” Clara chuckled. She stood and sat down in his lap, draping her arms around his neck and kissing him gently. “ _My_ silly old man—I’ve never been or felt forced to do anything when it comes to this place, so why would I start now?”

“Good,” he murmured. He put his hands on her waist and started kissing her back, slow and deliberate, ignoring everything else until the sound of someone specifically not their housemate interrupted them.

“Christ you two, give it a rest,” Davey grimaced. Liz was standing next to him, giggling into her hands, while Nydia had just appeared in the kitchen.

“Granddad must have slept in again,” she said, backing out as soon as she saw the scene.

“Did you just break into my house?” John asked his son.

“Dad, I have a key—and besides, Granddad was supposed to let us in so we could decorate before you two got up. Instead we get _this_ …”

“You are thirty years old, David,” Clara scolded. “I should hope you’d be comfortable with how your father and I are around one another by now.”

“Yes, and my daughter is _three_ ; behave yourselves.”

“We are adults,” John said. He pressed his nose into Clara’s hair, just to see his son squirm. “Besides, it’ll be good for Liz to see that her grandparents still love each other.”

“Dirty old man,” Davey grumbled as he left the room to see where his wife went. Liz stayed, however, bouncing up to her grandparents a giggly ball of energy.

“Happy birthday, Gran!” she beamed, holding her arms up and wide. Clara picked the girl up and gave her a hug and a kiss, which she both returned and gave to John as well.

“Did you eat breakfast yet, sweetling?” he wondered.

“Daddy said we were gonna make you breakfast!”

“I think that maybe, if you and Gran get off my lap, I can see what we’ve got in the fridge to make.”

“Okay!” Liz replied. She slid off Clara’s lap and took her hand as she stood. “Can we have tea?”

“I think there’s still some in the pot,” Clara nodded. She brought Liz over to a chair before getting her a small mug. No sooner had she poured the last drops from the pot into her granddaughter’s mug did Davey and Nydia reappear, ushering a sleepy-looking Dave into the room.

“They’re acting like I had a heart attack and fell, not overslept,” Dave grumbled sourly.

“Can’t be too careful with these things,” John said, glad his back was turned in order to hide his smirk.

“You’re the oldest one in the house—don’t give me that crap.” Liz giggled at that, knowing precisely what word her great-grandfather used that would get her a mouth full of soap. “Hey, where’s Wynn and Orson? Weren’t they supposed to be here too?”

“Not until the afternoon, now don’t change the subje— _Dad_! Stop it; I was going to do that!”

“You scrape Granddave off the floor, you lose your precious spot in front of the stove,” John snarked. He continued mixing pancake batter as Clara stood next to him refilling the kettle in the sink. “Isn’t that right, dear?”

“Precisely,” she agreed. She went on the other side of him and put the kettle on the stove. “We are _adults_ , this is _our house_ , and you are our _guest_ , which means that we can make breakfast or make out wherever and whenever we please and you get to deal with it.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t do something for you every once in a while that doesn’t involve Christmas dishes,” Davey frowned.

“Try shooting for sixty-five, sweetie,” Clara smirked.


	35. The Album

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: Suindara
> 
> Prompt: John and Clara's silver anniversary of wedding party, please?
> 
> Originally posted: 21 February 2017
> 
> Notes: 820 words; takes place very early on Saturday, April 17, 1965, when Clara is 46 and John is 73 (Davey and Wynn are 16 and 15); mentions potential photos from Chapter 48; lots of description/internalizing

They had rented a hall for the occasion—just a small one big enough for family and friends so that they needn’t worry about fitting everyone inside their house. There was good food, lively dancing, and everyone in attendance would be talking about it for a long time to come. One for the ages and things of that nature; though there was little doubt that John and Clara would both make it to their thirtieth, it was also good to know that no matter what happened down the road, they still were able to celebrate the way they wanted at least once.

Except, when everyone had gone home and was in bed sleeping off the festivities, there was one person who couldn’t fall asleep quite yet. Clara slipped out of the grasp of her husband, knowing that the very fact his arms were limp meant that he was likely going to sleep well into the late-morning without so much as a run to the loo, and quietly made her way downstairs. She found a book amongst the anniversary presents, put it on the kitchen table, made tea, and sat down. Opening the book, she smiled as she saw the contents again: it was a photo album put together by her children. It had brought her to tears when she had opened it at the hall and now she was in a better position to peruse it without anyone’s watchful eye or quick-snapping cameras.

The first page was baby photos of her and John, with their birthdays written under them and where they were born. It was obvious that the kids had enlisted their grandfather and aunt to help, considering she couldn’t remember ever seeing the photo of her husband as a wee baby and the one of her she hadn’t seen in decades. The page following it had their parents, with what looked like a copy of the old plate-made photograph of John’s parents and what she knew as her parents’ wedding portrait. More dates and places were written down, though she didn’t really pay much attention—she was more concerned with seeing how her father’s face was without the lines and wondering about the deceased inhabitants of the page. Would she have gotten on with her in-laws? What were they really like? Talking to John and Sarah Jane both painted an incomplete picture of them, which, if she was being honest, was the same when it came to her mother. She could imagine that she would have adored John all she liked, but she still never really knew for certain.

Turning pages, Clara continued to look at the old photographs, seeing how carefully Davey and Wynn organized them. It was obvious they wanted to make the years that separated them appear trivial, with childhood photos together and the only things separating the wartime pictures were dates and the fact that her husband lacked a uniform in some. There were photos where they were having fun as well as some that showed the bad they survived; each of them with uni mates and yet there was also shots John had taken of Wissforn from after the house was destroyed over their very heads. She was glad to not remember much of the days after that—one person can only be so strong, after all.

“See anything you like?”

Clara glanced up and saw John shuffling into the room, looking way too haggard to have gotten enough sleep.

“There’s a young man in here who looks about the very image of my husband,” she teased as he got himself some tea. “I wonder where he is and if he’s getting on well.”

“Oh, you know, just fine,” he chuckled. He sat down next to his wife and saw that she was already on one of the last pages—vacation photos from their late honeymoon. “Kids did a great job, didn’t they?”

“Yeah. Thanks for letting me go through this on my own—it’s embarrassing being weepy.”

“It’s not weepy that you have to watch out for, but when the bladder starts to go.”

“That’s gross, you berk.”

“Don’t want to disappoint.”

John reached over and took Clara’s hand in his, holding on as she browsed to the end of the book. When she closed it, he kissed the side of her head and murmured into her hair, “Let’s get back to bed. Morning will come soon enough.”

“Agreed,” she said. They walked hand-in-hand as they tiptoed past Dave’s snoring in the sitting room and the kids’ shut bedroom doors, making it back to their room without even setting off the squeaky board at the top of the stairs. Even though they had just done so a couple hours before, it still felt good to lie down in one another’s arms, comforted by their heartbeats against their chests. It didn’t take much to fall back asleep and for that they were glad.


	36. Cockerel Gossip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: Suindara
> 
> Prompt: in chapter 46 Clara asks John to come back to London and deal with their future house while she finished things in Clydebank. I wanted to know how Ms. Mcintyre and cockerel Mr. Green reacted? After all, their reserves about Clara's marriage fail by far...
> 
> Originally posted: 12 March 2017
> 
> Notes: 756 words; takes place in late August of 1946; only involves Mr. Greene, though needless to say that Ms. Macintyre's reaction when she learned of the resignation was priceless

With her train only a few days away, Clara was doing a final sweep of the flat before she packed for the last time before leaving for London. She had taken care of most everything else while John was setting things up with the new house and the publishing company. With the office now finally done, which was a chore that had taken the better part of a week, all she had to do now was the flat.

As Clara tried moving the sitting room couch, however, there was a knock at the door. She opened it to find Mr. Greene standing there with complete disbelief on his face.

“Oh, hello there Mr. Greene—come on in,” she said, stepping aside to allow her former boss inside. “This is a surprise, isn’t it?”

“I hate to say it is, Mrs. Smith,” he replied. He followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the table, watching as she put together some tea for them. “You can imagine the shock I had returning from holiday to hear that you’re leaving us for good. Are you sure about this? I’d much rather hear it directly from you than through someone else.”

“Positive,” she assured him. “We’ll still come up every so often for a visit, but right now this is going to be considered a permanent move.” She put two mugs of tea and a nearly-empty biscuit tin on the table and sat down as well. “Living in London is going to overall be better for John when it comes to going back and forth between home and the publisher’s, and we’ll have more room for children once they come along. We’d rather not leave Greater Glasgow, but that’s how it happened.”

“Then that will be good for you, I guess,” Mr. Greene nodded. “Terrible for us, since we have to now find someone who can dare replace you, but we’ll manage.”

“I’m sure you will.” Clara watched Mr. Greene as he took a biscuit, a thought tugging at the back of her mind. “Can I ask a question?”

“Certainly.”

“What do _you_ think about this? I know that you and John have known one another a long time, so what is your view on the situation?”

“Honestly? It’s a bit surreal,” he admitted. “John was a few years ahead of me, so I never really could admit to him being a mate, yet I remember him—as you tend to remember people who grew up around you—and it’s the oddest thing. He had changed after the war, you know that, yeah?”

“It’s been explained to me a few different times, yes, even by John himself,” she replied. “The First World War was difficult on your generation, just as the Second has been difficult on mine… maybe even moreso.”

“He was alone and sulking, and then you came blustering into his life like some sort of storm. No one thought he was going to get out of the slump he had set himself into, doing odd jobs the times between when the publisher would toss some money at him, and although he had picked up that shipyard job, we didn’t think that the stability would last.”

“Well, it has, much to everyone’s surprise, and now he has a decent contract and we will be better off than either of us have ever been in our lives. You have to at least be happy for that.”

“I am, don’t worry,” he said. “Even if John’s contract runs its course, he has a good woman at his side for support, which is less than some have to their name. If you were able to get him this far, then who knows what is in your future. He’s still a sour man, but even the bitterest of us deserve someone at their side.”

“Thank you,” Clara said. Then a thought came to mind. “I want to show you something, actually.” She stood and went into her bedroom, returning to the kitchen with John’s test copy of _Kittens Come Home_. “I don’t think I’ve shown this to anyone else—it’s the reason for our fortunes.”

Mr. Greene took the book and curiously opened it up. He browsed through it in silence, placing it back down on the table when he was done. “That’s good… really good. He could have something there if he can keep it up.”

“I’m certain he will.”

“Make sure of it, please; he’s better with you around.”

“I’ll make sure to quote you on that,” she grinned.


	37. Grynden's New Resident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: suindara
> 
> Prompt: About TTTWLB please: I would like to read how Granddave moved to John and Clara's house. I guess that it was after their nest emptied (in chapter 12 of TTTWLB prompt fills).
> 
> Originally posted: 12 April 2017
> 
> Notes: 687 and 1127 words, for a total of 1814; takes place in 1972; Clara is 53, Dave is 77, and John is 80; this reminds me of how the Doctor is sort of like a multi-disciplinarian scientist/tinkerer/handyman in Doctor Who proper and that can translate to being a do-it-yourselfer in the home improvement category for human!Doctor AUs; since this is a best-case-scenario version when it comes to what Dave Oswald does with his life as a widow, he only dated Linda for a while when Clara was a young adult and didn't marry her, and I do believe that Clara, especially Clara Smith, would be leagues more willing to do things like move her dad into her house if the Linda Factor was null.

_February_

Clara was positively livid as she got off the train and hailed a taxi that could take her straight to where she needed to go without worrying about navigating a bus schedule she hadn't needed looking at in years. There were plenty of things that were angering her at this point, yet none of them were nearly to the degree of why she was currently in Blackpool, making her way through the city of her youth, exiting the taxi in front of the hospital and storming her way up to the front desk. She found where her father was located and immediately went there, finding that Dave was sleeping. There were stitches on his forehead where he had cracked his head open on the countertop, which made things look all the more grisly. Sitting down in the chair next to his bed, she waited for him to wake up, a scowl on her face.

"Clara…?" he marveled as he floated back into consciousness. "You didn't come all the way here from London, did you?"

"You lied to me," she frowned. The words made him flinch. "You said you were taking your medication, that you were keeping up on things, that I shouldn't worry, and that was only _two months ago_. How long have you not been doing what you're supposed to?"

" _Clara_ …"

"Don't you ' _Clara'_ me, not after laying on the kitchen floor for two days."

Dave sighed heavily in defeat. "I haven't taken it at all—I've been doing well without it… for the most part."

"Heart medicine is nothing to ignore," she scolded. "You had a _heart_ _attack_ , as in you almost _died_ , and less than a month before Wynn's wedding. I thought you said you wanted to see that, let alone when she and Davey graduate at term's end."

"I do, but…"

"But what?! Dad, you're turning seventy-eight this year and aren't in the best of shape for your age… you need to take care of yourself now more than ever if you want to make it to these things! We were lucky that it was _just_ a heart attack and that the postman found you!"

"I'm fine though…"

"No, you're not; it's ridiculous that we are even having this conversation."

"It's my life, Clara…"

"…and I am not losing both my parents before I'm ready!"

Silence fell upon the room, with no noise between them aside from the steady beep of the heart monitor. Father and daughter avoided one another's gaze as the beeping slightly sped up, then calmed again.

" _Clara_ ," Dave said wearily. He reached out and took his daughter's hand in his, attempting to keep his composure. "I know it was hard when your mum died, but Ellie was more than just your mum to me."

"Yeah, I know—you nearly walked into the street in front of a car, which you weren't used to watching out for at the time, and she saved you."

"…and I couldn't save her when she needed me most. I just want to see her again…"

"Dad, Mum died of _tuberculosis_ , not anything you could have helped," Clara replied quietly. "We're just lucky that we didn't catch it… I'm lucky that _you_ didn't catch it and follow her. Fifteen and alone? I wouldn't be where I am right now, that's for certain."

"You're not fifteen anymore… your _daughter_ isn't even fifteen anymore…"

"No, but I am old enough to know that what you're doing is reckless, not to mention even more selfish than me wanting to keep you alive."

"I'm not so sure about that," he sighed.

"Sarah Jane passed last year and John has considered himself on ' _borrowed time_ ' for over two—not only would _he_ lose it, but the kids would as well," she scolded. She squeezed his hands a little tighter, careful not to put pressure on the IV. "Just know you have other options, okay? For now though, you need to take your medicine, you stubborn old fool."

"Yeah, watch out—I hear that sort of thing doesn't skip a generation."

At least that was something they could both laugh at.

* * *

_July_

It had been an intense few months as Clara and her father figured out what they were going to do. The two had argued back and forth, neither budging on their stance. Dave did not want to move out of his house and into an old folks' home, nor did he want someone barging in every day in order to tell him what to do. Meanwhile, Clara was firm on the fact that he needed someone watching over him, telling him what to do because she now lived in London and a move would have been disastrous for her. It went 'round and 'round and 'round over a couple different phone calls, and even during his time in town for Wynn's wedding, until John had picked up the kitchen phone while Clara was in the sitting room, bringing the argument to a dead halt.

"Move in with us—we've got the room—and then we can gang up on her and she'll have two old men to boss around."

That sealed the deal.

A couple hours each day, John conscripted Davey into helping him with the formal sitting room's transformation into Dave's new living quarters. The young man helped his father haul old furniture down the stairs into the basement, got up on ladders to reach stubborn wallpaper bits, and even had to learn how to install a new light fixture while standing precariously on the top of a ladder. He nearly failed his final portfolio because of the home improvement projects, but every time he expressed worry over his grades, his father scoffed at the idea.

"Your stuffy professors in their ivory towers probably don't even know what good art is anyhow—not to mention you're going to be working for me, and I say you're more than talented enough."

With that, they continued on, with Davey barely scraping together a portfolio worthy of his newfound degree and John reveling in fact that his son was now his ultimate assistant. While Dave was scheduled to begin moving his things in when he arrived to watch his grandchildren graduate university, it wasn't until late into July before he actually began the process. Davey picked the figurative short straw and ended up being the one to head to the train station the afternoon his grandfather came in, greeting the man on the platform.

"It's good to see you," he said, taking the suitcases from his grandfather. "The ride wasn't too terrible, was it?"

"Dreadful, but I'm sure you know that by now," Dave nodded. He grabbed onto Davey's arm so as to not lose him and allowed his grandson to lead the way through the crowded station and into the carpark. "I still think this is ridiculous—I shouldn't have to be here."

"You know you do, Granddad," Davey replied. They reached his father's junker old car and he put the suitcases in the boot before they both got into in the car. "I thought you wanted to do this."

"I did, but now I don't know anymore."

"Come on—I did not have Dad order me around for three months for you to get cold feet. You're being silly." Davey started up the cart and drove out of the carpark, headed towards Grynden.

"We'll see how you like it when you have to abandon the house you lived in for decades, only to be shoved in with family that has their own lives to live," Dave grumbled. "Wynn's kid might give you no choice; it could even be a court order."

"Hey, I'm not that pessimistic," Davey laughed. "It could be my own kid that orders me to move in with them one day. Just because Wynn can't keep her hands off Orson while I don't even have a girlfriend doesn't mean that I'm never going to have a family of my own."

"It's still going to be interesting that visiting Gran and Granddad will also include Granddave and Uncle Davey," the older man snarked. He glanced over at his namesake and saw the frown on his face. "Oh, come on… I remembered what you said after graduation: build up funds first, _then_ head off on your own. Could be a while before that becomes a reality—you could be an uncle two or three times over, bless Orson."

"Yeah," Davey muttered lowly.

"Going by your father's timeline, you have until, what, 1996? Is that math right?"

"It is, because I've done it before, and I don't like thinking that if I do attempt something like Mum and Dad did, then I'd have three years before I start searching the cradles."

"Maybe Wynn's kid can introduce you to a classmate? You never know."

"I'm going to need you to shut up now, Granddad, or you'll be attempting to navigate an unfamiliar bus system in a few minutes," Davey deadpanned. Most of the remaining ride was quiet and they turned down Grynden without much fuss. "Here we are: home."

"Home is still in Blackpool for me—it'll take a while."

"Hey, beats living with a bunch of old codgers."

"No—that'll be you in two minutes," Dave chuckled as his grandson pulled into the driveway. John and Clara must have been watching for them, because they both came out to greet him immediately.

"Glad you made it safe, Dad," Clara said. She gave him a hug that she had a difficult time ending, breaking it to help him into the house. "Here; let's get you settled in."

"I'm old, not an invalid," her father scowled.

"Some people think that's one in the same."

"Don't remind m—"

Dave stopped and stared at the set of double doors that were blocking off what he had known as the formal dining room from the rest of the house. He opened one of the doors cautiously, peeking into his new room. There was a bed, a chair, a chest of drawers, and even the wardrobe that he had shipped over two weeks prior. Fresh paint replaced wallpaper and there was a new rug sitting on the floor.

"Do you like it?" Clara asked.

"Roomier than I expected," he replied.

"What were you expecting?" John wondered as he and Davey brought in the suitcases.

"Not sure, but it's better than being alone in that old house," Dave shrugged. He went over to the bed and unzipped a suitcase that had been placed atop it. "When are we going back next?"

"Late next month—want you to get some rest first before heading all that way again," Clara said. She allowed a kiss from her husband before going to her father's side. "We'll figure out the rest of the stuff at the house, don't worry."

"Okay," he nodded, lying only just a little.


	38. The Great Smog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: DominusTempori
> 
> Prompt: After watching Season 1 of "The Crown" I learned about the "Great Smog of '52" that brought London to a standstill for days. Later on the thought crossed my mind..."Would that fog have affected the Smith clan in their neighborhood? How bored would the kids get after exhausting their imaginations?"
> 
> Originally posted: 12 Oct 2017
> 
> Notes: 1654 words; takes place in the first weekend of December 1952, when John is 61, Clara is 33, Davey is 4 ½, and Wynn is 3 ½; since Grynden is a dead-end, I would imagine that the smog was terrible in their area; omg I need to get off my ass and watch The Crown already (or is it stay on my ass and watch The Crown?); Sunday, October 8th, was TTTWLB's third anniversary and I'm so happy you guys

John curled his lip in disgust as he stared out Wynn's bedroom window. A thick, dense fog had settled over London, causing there to be virtually no visibility in the quiet cul-de-sac. There was no wind, little traffic to move the air, and a dark, yellowish color to the clouds that made his stomach lurch.

In her bed, Wynn coughed and pulled John's attention away from the outdoors. He sat down at the edge of her mattress and felt her forehead, noting that it was hot to the touch.

"Daddy, I don't feel very good," she whined, clutching her bear.

"I know, sweetling," he replied. He took a washcloth and soaked it in the basin on the nightstand, wringing out the excess and placing it on her forehead. "Mam will be back from the chemist before you know it." His daughter squeaked and his heart shattered for her.

"Daddy, tea's ready!" Davey shouted up the stairs. John didn't hear, as he was too engrossed in making sure Wynn was alright. Soon, his son appeared at his side, holding out a mug of tea for him. "Daddy, I said that tea's ready."

"Oh, thank you, son," he said, taking the cuppa gratefully. "The timer for brewing went off, I take it?"

"Yup, and I poured you one just how you like it," Davey nodded. He went to the head of the bed and stared at his sister in worry. "Do you want some tea too, Wynnie? I can make it extra-sweet for you."

"Please," she coughed.

"…and no milk," John added. "Milk tastes funny when you're sick and that only makes things worse." He watched as Davey bounced out of the room before setting his mug down and removing the cloth from Wynn's forehead to check it again—it was cooler, though barely. Wetting the cloth and replacing it, he began to mutter the children's favorite lullaby under his breath. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes as Wynn whimpered from underneath the duvet, a sniffly, coughing mess. There was so much he wanted to do for her, yet unfortunately, his title of Doctor was only a pen name, not any sort of medical training.

"Daddy?" Davey said, appearing at his side. "Can you sit Wynnie up please? She can't have her tea laying down."

"Of course, son," he said. John put the washcloth back in the basin and shuffled daughter and pillows so that she was sitting up enough to drink. He took the cuppa from Davey's hands and held it by her chin. "Smell the steam, sweetling; it'll help your nose clear a little."

"Mmm… tea smells good," she hummed. Wynn stuck her nose almost inside the mug itself, taking deep breaths. "Thank you Daddy, thank you Davey."

"John! I'm back!" Clara shouted from downstairs. John carefully handed Wynn her tea and told Davey to watch over her before going down to greet his wife. She was in the foyer, placing her coat on its peg. "It is _terrible_ out there; Davey is _not_ going outside to play until this fog lifts."

"That bad?"

"I could barely see two feet in front of me, and I doubt it was because of the mask," she said. Clara passed her husband the gas mask that he had uncovered from the attic and frowned. "I didn't think that keeping these would end up being _useful_ …"

"Soon as the weather clears up, we can put this thing back where it belongs," John assured her. "The chemist have the medicine?"

"He did, and he was nearly out too. Better go get the sugar, or she's never going to take it."

"Right," he agreed before kissing her cheek and walking into the kitchen. He rummaged around for the sugar cubes and brought the box upstairs, where Clara was already spooning out some medicine into a spoon.

"Look at that—the cavalry has arrived," she said at the sight of her husband. Clara took a sugar cube from John and let it melt inside the spoon of medicine, sweetening the concoction considerably.

"I don't wanna take medicines, Mummy," Wynn sniffled. "I just wanna have tea."

"Medicine first, then tea," Clara said. She gave her daughter a look that made her open her mouth reluctantly, allowing her to pour the spoon contents down her throat. Wynn scrunched her face up in disgust and drank a few large gulps of tea, nearly finishing it off.

"I'll get you more," Davey said, holding out his hands. Wynn passed him the mug and he took it down the stairs.

"Why don't I feel good, Mummy?" Wynn asked. "What did the chemist-man say?"

"He said that he's seen a lot of people come in lately, and that you should stay indoors, windows shut, and get plenty of rest."

"What if Daddy farts on accident?"

"We'll have to deal with smelly Daddy-farts for a while, unfortunately," Clara frowned. She shot a glare towards John, who feigned innocence. "We can only open the windows when the sky clears—too much fog can stick to your lungs and then you'd only get worse."

"Really…?"

"Heard it from Nanna Ellie herself—' _fog doesn't hurt when you're well, but stay in the house when you're ill_ '. She was very good with those sorts of things. You'll listen to Nanna Ellie, yeah?" Wynn nodded and Clara kissed her forehead. "Good; oh, look who's returned… your caring big brother with more tea."

"Hold these, please, Mummy," Davey requested. He passed Clara the mugs and grabbed a picture book from the shelf before crawling into bed with his sister. Opening the book across their laps, he held out his hands and Clara passed the children their tea.

"Be good now," she said, kissing the tops of their heads. She then turned towards John and took his hand, leading him out of the bedroom and towards the stairs. "Chicken soup for dinner _tonight_ instead of tomorrow's lunch, I think. We are going to nip this right in the bud."

"I've never heard her cough like that," John said, worried. "It can't be the flu that's been going around; both the kids caught it last month and their coughs sounded _different_."

"We are just going to have to keep an eye on her," Clara said. Once they were at the bottom of the stairs, she picked up the basket with the rest of her shopping and brought it into the kitchen, her husband following close behind. "Oswynne and David are staying in the house until this fog lifts—I don't like it."

"I don't either, and I doubt there are any more gas masks for sale in their size," he replied.

"There was a box for masks that they said were made for fog, but they were all out."

"Wouldn't trust them—it's bad enough I don't feel good about the stuff getting in through cracks in the windows and doors." He helped her unload the basket and put things away, working immediately on washing the veg that was going to go into the soup while she took the chicken out of the simmering pot atop the stove, which she put on a plate and began to shred into pieces. John took a knife from a drawer and began to peel potatoes and carrots. "Maybe we should think about moving."

"…and where would we move to that could keep you within a sane commuting distance to the publisher's?" Clara asked. "We're not moving."

"It's not even this bad up in Glasgow…"

"…and we're not going to let a little bit of bad weather stop us from letting you support us how you always wanted," she insisted. "Maybe this means the government will do something—bring us back to horses or something."

"Horses…?"

"I don't know… the Queen just lost her father to smoke, so this might be the push she needs to think about ways to clean up the air, maybe get some scientists on it if she can't come up with anything. Science is moving along, after all."

"You're right about that," he nodded. He was about to open his mouth to say something else when a tiny voice hollered from the top of the stairs.

"Daddy!" Wynn called. "Davey threw up all over my bed!"

John set the knife and a half-peeled potato down, kissing Clara on his way out. "Guess my work isn't done yet, after all."

"Go, you silly man," she teased, "and be a doctor… or a decent nurse at the very least."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: For those who are unawares, the Great Smog of '52 was a weather event that was the worst air-quality event in London history. An anticyclone of warm air (think a reverse-cyclone, with high pressure instead of low and clear skies instead of clouds) settled on top of London, which had been very cold and windless at the time. The warm air at the top (warm air rises, folks) kept everything under it in place, which lead to a disastrous buildup of pollutants in the air in the chill underneath as people burned more coal than usual to stay warm. Thousands of people fell ill due to the smog, which wasn't a major concern at first because of London being known for smog/fog events for hundreds of years at that point. Not only that, but transport ceased operating and public events were put on hold. Even cinemas had to stop in some places, as the smog could seep indoors and make seeing the feature difficult. Contemporary fatality numbers estimate about 6000 people died due to respiratory illnesses gained due to the fog's pollutants, though current figures state it could actually have been twice that over the weeks and months that followed. The Great Smog led to the Clean Air Act of 1956, which has since been repealed in order to be incorporated into other legislation, and can be seen as the kick-start to modern environmentalism.


	39. John and Belinda, 1922

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter: nenabaez
> 
> Prompt: [...] I have a question because I'm freaking curious, what happened between Clara's landlady and John that she hates him so much? All that bitchin' towards him and the sarcasm from John. [...]
> 
> Originally posted: 19 October 2017
> 
> Notes: 1028 words; takes place before TTTWLB, in mid-1922, when John is 30 years old (roughly corresponds with Lair of the White Worm in the PCap Filmography); contains Bro Talk, mentions of the political atmosphere of the day (which I have a long note on at the bottom of the page for), and literary hullabaloo that shouldn't be taken to-heart but I needed something so bear with me please; this is just one of many run-ins John and Belinda had over the years, so there's plenty of time both before and after this for the snark to build

“You got to listen to me, Wissforn,” Ranald insisted. He leaned on his old mate’s shoulder, a pint in his other hand, as he became too close for the other man’s comfort. “Give her one chance; you know I’m not here to steer you wrong.”

“Maybe not steer _me_ wrong, but definitely ready to dump your sister off on someone,” John frowned. Something had told him that this was not the night to head down to the pub, but did he listen to himself? Naw, of course not. Now he was being harassed by old classmates with spare sisters on-hand and nowhere to run. He was trapped.

“At least do it with the knowledge that you’re safe t’ go t’ work next time there’s a strike,” Ranald said. “I was at the meeting the other night and they want you amongst the ones reporting as-usual—we don’t need to have you sacked and then some English wank or uppity uni bastard taking your spot. You may have _been_ to university, but you ran with the rest of us as a nip and didn’t ditch the accent when you could’ve.”

“I still didn’t run with _everyone_ ,” John said. He drained his glass and motioned towards the barman for another. “I take two steps towards the offices and I’m getting a tomato in my face courtesy of County Cork.” His fresh pint appeared and he thanked the barman before taking a sip. “Don’t get me wrong, because I do appreciate knowing I won’t get torn limb from limb should a riot break out and we attempt independence from our masters while inspired by the Irish, but I’m not going to shag your sister.”

“You don’t have to _shag_ her… just talk to her,” Ranald said. “Just see if it’ll go anywhere—don’t know until you try.”

“Should I be taking relationship advice from someone who very well could stuff a child by the end of the year?” John deadpanned. He watched as his drinking buddy took a long draught from his pint—how many was he in tonight—and tried to ignore what as obviously a sore subject. “What would Molly have thought? I know Jeannie’s been a great help since she died, but she’s fifteen! A girl! Half our age!”

“Me mam was married at fifteen.”

“Your mam was an orphan with no way to get back to her family in Clare, and marriage was her best option,” John reminded him. “It wouldn’t surprise me if you get the poor girl up the duff by the year’s end and suddenly you have a whole new set of mouths to feed.”

“The trick is to finish _in her mouth_ , not in her belly, or have you forgotten the tricks to not getting stuck with a girl for life?”

“This still isn’t convincing me to go anywhere near your sister.”

“You… are a prick.”

“…and I can at least think without consulting mine.”

Ranald refused deigning a reply to that and continued drinking his pint. The air between the men grew cold until John let out a long groan and slammed back the rest of the pint he was working on in one long go.

“Fine, but I’m telling you it won’t work.”

John put down the empty glass and slid off the barstool, headed out into the main of the lively pub once a filled glass found his hand. He wove around other groups of friends and went towards the corner, where a woman he knew was two years older than him sat with a book, a pint, and an order of chips. He sat down across from her, knowing it was safer overall to keep his distance.

“Belinda?” He cleared his throat and leaned forward in an attempt to get her attention. “Oi, Belinda; what’cha got there?”

“ _The Lost Girl_ ,” she replied dully. She plucked a vinegar-slathered chip with two fingers and ate it before using her little finger to turn the page. “It’s Lawrence; do you understand Lawrence?”

“We might be the only two in the building who do,” he shrugged. “Bit too depressing for my tastes—all the romance in the wrong places kind of wears on a man after a while. You probably read Woolf too, yeah?”

“Of course.”

He drank from his pint and shook his head. “Prefer Doyle and Christie m’self; a good mystery’s always fun, and something about the preciseness is gratifying.”

“There’s no passion though,” Belinda said. “Christie’s alright enough, but Doyle has less passion than legislation concerning road upkeep.”

“That’s… a new one.”

“Have you even _read_ Sherlock Holmes? The man might as well be a spaceman from Mars.”

“Well,” John replied, “I find him to be rather fascinating—almost like another version of myself sometimes.”

“Pity.”

Taking that as his cue, John stood and walked back to the bar, drink in-hand. Luckily, his seat was still open and he plopped down on it.

“So…?” Ranald asked.

“Good luck getting rid of that one,” John scoffed. “Her taste in literature is twisted beyond repair.”

“I told her she reads too much…”

“No, it’s that she doesn’t understand the difference between her personal tastes and literary achievement. How am I supposed to want to shag a woman like that? She has the disposition of a bloody pincushion.”

“Alright—that I’ll agree with,” Ranald said. He looked at his old mate, squinting in the low, smoke-filled light from the pub. “How the bloody hell do you survive without a lassie in your bed?”

“Easy: I toss on an extra blanket in winter,” John joked. He saw the confusion on Ranald’s face and rolled his eyes. “How the bloody hell did you survive between Molly dying and seducing Jeannie?”

“I wouldn’t call that survivin’, mate.”

“The right one’ll come along, so don’t you worry about me.” John drank some more and attempted to remember which one he was on; four? Five? Feck, his head was beginning to swim. “She may never come—I don’t mind. M’uncle didn’t have anyone an’ he was fine.”

“Your uncle might’ve been a poof.”

“Still m’uncle.”

Ranald nodded and downed the rest of his drink. “Can’t argue with that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sharp history nerds will attest that I’ve pretty much stayed clear of mentioning much of the socio-political turmoil that plagued John’s hometown of Clydebank, as well as other communities along the River Clyde, during his lifespan. The “Red Clydeside”, as it was known contemporarily, was the center of labor unrest, anti-war activism, and strikes concerning rent, overcrowding, wages, and worker conditions, amongst other things. What made the Red Clydeside stand out was the militarism that some activists resorted to, which even made the government at the time fear a possible revolution attempt in 1919 (post-WWI, but still a rather unstable time, politically-speaking). While most of the unrest was from 1911-1919, with ~1930s being a rough end point for the movement’s lifespan (so mostly while John was away at war, with little happening by the time Clara shows up (hence John’s comment in ch.11 about strikes that never happen)), the area has ever since been left-leaning by supporting Labour, and the SNP in more recent years. An added note that muddles everything even more is that the majority of Ireland was also gaining its independence at the time (1922 was when their first constitution was ratified, along with being the year British troops began to move out of the country), and one of the things about Greater Glasgow in general is that it has plenty of historic ties to Ireland thanks to immigration, particularly in the working classes that our John’s from, which I’m sure fueled some separatist flames. It’s a lot of really interesting stuff to read up on, but unfortunately doesn’t have much room within The Time That We Love Best, being that it is a story that isn’t very political in nature.
> 
> Also, don’t take relationship advice from mates like Ranald. It’ll only end in disaster.


End file.
